


Return of the Eagle

by Expert93



Category: French History RPF, French Revolution RPF, Napoleonic Era RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: 1815, Action/Adventure, Alcohol, Army, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Bourbons, Dreams, Emperor - Freeform, Epic Battles, Fighting, France (Country), French, Gen, History, Intrigue, King - Freeform, Memories, Mutiny, Napoleon Bonaparte - Freeform, Scheming, Soldiers, Swearing, Treachery, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 79,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28673670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Expert93/pseuds/Expert93
Summary: The epic story of Napoleon Bonaparte's return to France from Elba in the year 1815. (Historically well-researched, sources are listed at the bottom of the chapter 1.)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. The Escape

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent the last four years writing and researching this story. All the chapters have already been written, and I'm uploading them one at a time. This was meant to be published eventually as a book. I'm using this website as a testing ground to gauge the reaction of readers to see what they honestly think. I hope you enjoy this as my first uploaded story.

**Prelude**

Late in February 1815, after having spent nearly ten long months of abdication on Elba's tiny island, the former deposed Emperor of the French, Napoléon Bonaparte, made his daring escape from the island. He and his followers were aboard a little armada that set sail directly for France's southern coast through the Ligurian Sea. He was supported by a force of 1,200 devoutly loyal soldiers, officers, and a handful of servants. His goal was to retake the throne of France by unseating the French King, Louis XVIII. The Bourbon return to power in 1814 became politically aggravated, and France's social situation began to deteriorate. During his stay on Elba, Napoléon received a steady stream of information revealing France's turmoil, mostly from his spies on the European mainland, and reading countless newspapers. Louis XVIII's socially fruitless policies were failing. They quickly made him widely unpopular as both the population and the army became more alienated each day. Only the French society’s elites had directly benefited from the King’s favors he bestowed upon them. Napoléon believed this was his last opportunity to reclaim France to lead once again. There was no going back if he failed. Napoléon made the gamble – He would win back France or lose everything instead, even possibly his life.

* * *

Napoléon Bonaparte felt something stuck in the corner of his right blue-grey eye and rubbed it out until it was gone. He was pleased as the island of Elba slowly grew smaller into the dark horizon while aboard his command ship, the brig _Inconstant_. His fleet had started its departure north-west in the evening from the main Elban port of Portoferraio and set its course for France's southern coast. But not long after, he became irritated when a dramatic drop in the wind all but immobilized his ships in the coastal sea. The fleet only barely drifted on the blue water while he hoped for the arrival of a gale to avoid a disastrous end to his mission.

_Finally, I have put Elba behind me._

Napoléon thought while standing behind the poop deck’s wooden railing of his vessel. He pulled out his bronze pocket watch from his grey frock coat’s outer pocket and flipped open the hatch. It was a quarter before midnight. Even at night, Portoferraio's port was still seen a few miles away, but not the sizeable civilian crowd that had watched his departure from the island hours ago after seven o’clock. His Elban subjects had cheered for him when he boarded the _Caroline_ before it transported him to the _Inconstant_. They even played the national anthem of the French Republic, ‘La Marseillaise.’ It was a touching gesture he had deeply appreciated. After he had enjoyed his last dinner with his sister, Pauline, and mother, Letizia, they wished him well and bade their farewells.

Napoléon held no ill feelings against the island and twelve-thousand people he had ruled over as their Emperor for less than a year. He was proud of the fact that he left Elba in good shape before his parting. A list of domestic improvements came to his mind. The infrastructure and the economy vastly improved, and the inhabitants' lives considerably changed for the better. Under his supervision, roads were laid out, the island's defenses had been strengthened, and a hospital was constructed. A fountain that produced cold fresh drinking water had been erected for the people of Elba. Vineyards and avenues of mulberry trees were planted, and bridges were constructed.

_That was only just Elba._

Napoléon proudly mused. Before he governed the island, entire nations in mainland Europe were transformed because of him. The social, political, and economic reforms he issued when he was once the ruler of most of Europe influenced millions of people's lives.

_The world would remember me for everything I have accomplished._ _It is impossible for everything I achieved to be reversed._

On the other hand, his success in administration reminded him of the Bourbon French ruler's failures. It had been made clear to him that King Louis XVIII and his supporters learned no valuable lessons about France's changed nature in their twenty years of exile. For the past year, they ruled France as if the past two decades' events never occurred. As a result, only misery was visited upon the French people. It was such an inviting opportunity waiting to be seized. And thus, Napoléon’s gambit was undertaken only hours earlier.

_As soon as I get the throne, I will put an end to this folly for good and show the crowned heads of Europe that the King and his ilk are not welcome in France, and they never will be. The people had spoken twenty years ago when they removed the Bourbons from power. Their attitude towards the Ancien Régime never softened during that time._

Napoléon heard someone approaching him from behind. The person’s shoes scraped against the brown wooden planks of the brig’s deck with every step. It was his young, twenty-three-year-old valet, Louis Marchand, who spoke to him in his soft voice. “Mon Empereur, if you so wish, I will bring you a cup of coffee to our cabin and prepare your bed for the night.”

Napoléon turned around and looked at the brown-curly-haired valet who was garbed in his single-breasted black jacket with brass buttons, white breeches, stockings, and bronze buckled shoes. “While you’re at it, bring a candle to my cabin, and then, you can retire for the night, Monsieur Marchand.”

“Yes, sire.” Replied Marchand as he set off on his errand.

Napoléon gazed to the northwest over the open waters, and toward France and his destiny.

_This gamble will be my boldest yet._

His chance of successfully regaining France was remote at best. Many would have viewed him as a madman to lead a tiny force on an insane mission to take over a country.

_Small in numbers, but brave and loyal._

Napoléon assessed his followers as capable of the momentous task.

He self-convincingly reminded himself of the composition of his dedicated command. Commanded by his battle-hardened officers were six-hundred seven Chasseurs and Grenadiers from his Old Guard infantry, three-hundred poorly-equipped volunteers from Corsica, twenty-one Marines of the Imperial Guard, one-hundred Old Guard artillerymen, a pair of four-pounder cannons, one-hundred eighteen Lancers of the Old Guard including seven Mamelukes and Horse Chasseurs, fifty Corsican Gendarmes, and finally, sixty civilians, who were the civil and domestic household servants.

_The strength of an oversized battalion. Not much at all._

He critically concluded. Napoléon took pride in the hastily banded ships forming his ad-hoc navy, aboard which his followers were distributed. The flotilla comprised the six guns bombard _Etoile_ , the _Caroline_ , _Saint-Joseph_ , and merchant brig _Saint-Esprit._ All were transport ships. They were sailing east of Napoléon’s command brig, _Inconstant_. There was the _Bee_ and _Fly_ to its left in the West – both being small single-mast felucca ships. Out of all the vessels, the _Inconstant_ was the heaviest at three-hundred seventy-four tons and armed with twenty-six guns, including eighteen twenty-four-pounder carronades, two chase guns, and the remainder were swiveled. The rest were only for transportation with no armaments, except for the _Etoile_.

Having stayed at the brig’s rear for long enough, Napoléon sauntered away from the wooden railing and jaunted down the short set of stairs that led to the main deck. The deck's center was taken up by five longboats nestled on top of one another between the main and foremasts. He momentarily gandered at the fore and main square-rigged masts, each with four successive horizontal spars—no wind at all. All eight sails were still. 

Everywhere else, the brig’s deck was filled up with his proud Old Guard infantrymen and his not as feisty civilian staff. The _Inconstant_ was only about ninety-five feet in length and twenty-seven in width. It impressed him the brig carried this many people, with every bit of room taken up. It was so crowded to the brim with passengers that a good portion of them had to sleep in the open on the deck’s wooden floor.

Everyone aboard the craft slumbered with their backs pressed up against the wooden railings or on the firm deck, where the soldiers used their thick bearskin hats or folded blue double-breasted overcoats as pillows. Some unfortunate among the civilian staff could only lay their weary heads against the hard floor itself.

When Napoléon reached the main deck, he carefully avoided tripping over some of his sleeping veterans. He suddenly saw movement ten feet away. An Old Guardsman officer who was attired in his dark blue tailcoat jacket with white lapels suddenly awakened, sharply stood up, and vomited over the ship's left side. Napoléon approached the heaving soldier and waited for his episode to subside.

“Do you feel better now, Capitaine Lamouret?” Napoléon quietly asked as he slipped his own two chilled hands into the outer pockets of his grey coat.

The officer spat out a few more times before he stood at full attention as if ready for a military review. Lamouret displayed an expression of iron-rigidity in his composure, no doubt, hardened from years of war. However, Napoléon could the brown-mustached Captain was still shaken by the seasickness, heavily breathing after he vomited. “I am somewhat well, sire. Now that my dinner had escaped my stomach.” He replied in the same low tone.

“Tell me, do you think we can succeed in regaining France again, Captain?”

The officer cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon, sire, but it is not my place to question any of your plans.”

“Come and tell me what you think about my enterprise. I order you to speak frankly with me, Captain.”

Thus assured, Lamouret spoke very frankly as ordered. “Sire, I believe this is a hazardous mission for us all. Once the King learns of our presence in France, he will throw in whatever army he has at us loyal to him. Despite that, we are willing to follow you wherever and even die for you when the time comes. There is no doubt about it.” He seemed a little nervous now after he had spoken out truthfully. Napoléon nodded, understanding the officer’s fears.

_Speed is my greatest priority, and every hour counted._

Suppose he reached the coast of France and quickly moved inland before the eventual news of his escape spread like wildfire. In that case, it feasibly could be possible for him to retake France. He calculated that the French royal government would then likely be unprepared to respond to his presence in the country.

“Well then, we better be quick and hurry up, while time is still on our side, and then if we are lucky, we can catch the King in a vulnerable state, with his breeches down to his ankles.” Lamouret quietly chuckled at his soldierly joke.

“Now, get yourself some sleep. You will need it soon enough.” The Guardsman nodded, and returned to his sitting position on the deck, and soon went back to sleep again.

Napoléon walked away from the officer’s presence, heading on over to his cabin. He lazily paced past the helmsman in charge of the ship’s wheel. He thought about that talk with Lamouret.

_That was the second man who harbored doubts about my_ plan.

It reminded Napoléon of when, not twenty-four hours earlier on the island, his subordinate, the former Governor of Elba General Drouot had tried to discourage him from commencing this enterprise. But he had already made up his mind. His resolve to accomplish his destiny was still just as firm. The plan to return to France had been ongoing for several months. When Napoléon had learned that the King never paid his yearly allowance of two-million francs, as stipulated in the Treaty of Fontainebleau, the flagrant insult encouraged his resolve to escape.

Furthermore, without those funds, maintaining the Elba garrison's upkeep would have been impossible in a few years, leaving him defenseless to enemy plots. The opportunity to return to France successfully ripened for Napoléon. So many millions of Frenchmen more bitterly resented the King as the year 1815 started.

_I must strike while the iron is hot._

Napoléon opened the wooden doors, which led into the great cabin, and entered the room that had been comfortably prepared for him before he boarded the ship. The residence was simple in its furnishings. There were no windows, not even shutters. A lavatory with its door opened was in the corner. A white mattress with brown sheets on a simple wooden bed frame was placed next to the northern wooden wall. The ceiling was thirty feet high and made up of dark brown planks. A finely-carved desk with four legs and a red cushioned chair was the only luxurious pieces of furniture in the cabin. Meanwhile, the _Inconstant’s_ commander, Captain Jean François Chautard, temporarily stayed in the crew’s sleeping quarters below deck during the voyage destined for France.

Napoléon slumped into the chair but ended up sitting too close with the edge of the desk pressed up against his protruding belly. He silently cursed and backed the seat chair a little. Admittedly, he gained some weight in the waist while reigning as Elba’s sovereign.

_Life there has made me a bit fat._

He thought in irritation. The steaming cup of blackened coffee and the burnished metal holder that held the candle had already been placed on the desk’s surface earlier by his valet. The candle’s yellow flame illuminated the room. Napoléon slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out three sheets of paper, all folded up multiple times. They were all laid out as he opened each one.

The hearts and minds of the people and soldiers of France must be won. His three proclamations were drafted on Elba just a few days before he departed from the little island.

_Just like gunpowder, Frenchmen will explode in revolt, and my written words will be the spark._

Napoléon took one of the proclamations addressed to France's soldiers and reviewed the wording, ensuring persuasiveness. It was dictated through someone else’s hand since his handwriting was terrible. He had little patience for such tedious tasks.

When he finished, Napoléon concluded the proclamation would champion his cause. He focused on one inspiring sentence in the declaration that strongly invoked the contents' spirit in its entirety.

**Victory shall march at a charging step; the eagle, with the national colors, shall fly from steeple to steeple, till it reaches the towers of Notre Dame.** **[1]**

Napoléon smiled. Him, the eagle, who had escaped from Elba and would soon be seen flying throughout France.

At the top of the paper were two individual men, whom he had referred to vaguely as traitors: his former army commanders, Marmont and Augereau.

Anger flared within Napoléon as he gripped the document harder between his thumbs and forefingers. He thought of the history he shared with the former. Being forty-five years old, Marmont was one of his oldest acquaintances. He had known him for twenty-two years, nearly half of his life, since the Siege of Toulon. He had raised Marmont to the distinguished civil dignity of ‘Marshal of the Empire.’ He granted him the title of ‘Duke of Ragusa.’ The very man, whom he had raised to such high positions in society, had committed the ultimate sin against him. Marshal Marmont, his false friend, conspired and deliberately surrendered his army corps to the coalition forces shortly after Paris had fallen a year ago. Why had Marmont betrayed him? That question had plagued him since that fateful event.

_I could never have thought he would do such a thing to me. My enemies, especially the King and his lackeys, must have praised and rewarded him for his dastardly treachery._

Napoléon gnashed his teeth – the memory of that man’s unforgivable betrayal repulsed him. Marmont’s treason reminded him of his second named traitor, Marshal of the Empire and Duke of Castiglione Charles Pierre François Augereau. Another old subordinate who had served him in most of his military campaigns. Napoléon still evoked how Marshal Augereau had performed relatively poorly in the final stages of the war a year ago in France. He had given Augereau command of an army to defend the city of Lyons and its surrounding region. He was quite disgusted when he had learned the news that Augereau left it to the enemy without so much as a token of resistance in defending the city in a siege. When his abdication became public knowledge, Napoléon had read a proclamation issued by Augereau. The rhetoric condemned him as a tyrant. The Marshal then proclaimed his support for the restored King as if solely for selfish political expediency.

Napoléon dropped the paper when his temper subsided, pushed it aside on the desk, and slumbered back against his chair in further cogitation, staring blankly at the flat surface. In hindsight, he observed the loyalty and companionship he held with some of his battle-hardened marshals, including those who had supported his abdication, wavered when he was defeated. Augereau and Marmont were guilty of betrayal, and the other commanders committed a lesser sin: they abandoned him. They conveniently had retained the titles and privileges that he alone had bestowed upon them under the Bourbon King.

_Ingratitude. That is what many of my marshals repaid me with at the end when I had lost everything. They owed everything to me. I alone had extensively promoted them in French society. In my time of great need, their desertion or treachery was the thanks I received in return after everything I had done for them._

Though nearly a whole year went by, Napoléon was still disappointed with them. However, his feelings were now immaterial to the big picture. Many of his former subordinates would be granted a second chance. But, Augereau and Marmont never deserve his forgiveness. Napoléon was confident that soon after entering France, many of his old marshals would join him, counting upon their true underlying loyalty to him. He considered the likelihood that some might stay loyal to the King to keep his favor. They would not be punished for opposing him if he regained France because they had done nothing treacherous against him personally before he abdicated. It was likely that some of the marshals would try to stop him on behalf of their King. Napoléon believed that it was not a significant concern. He was sure that they could not be able to do very much at all if the army overwhelmingly aligned itself with him.

_A leader without an army is nothing._

The military would surely follow him again _._

_The soldiers love me._

Napoléon knew that much was true. He was always one of them by heart. He had shared in their hardships, socialized with them like old friends, and even risked his own life in the thick of battle on many occasions.

_But what if they do not come to my side_?

Napoléon shrugged off that sudden irrational fear. He had been away from France for ten months. He was sure that the army’s opinion of him had not changed so drastically during that period.

_The troops will rally to me, and then I will be strong enough to remove the Bourbons from power for good._

Napoléon reassured himself. He grabbed his still hot cup of coffee next to the candleholder and sipped a generous amount, warming his body from the inside. He began reviewing his second proclamation, addressed to the people of France. When he finished, the declaration was right in its wording and persuasive rhetoric. The last lengthy sentence was, in his opinion, the most powerful of them all. He reread that part one more time.

**Frenchmen: in my exile I heard your complaints and your wishes; you accused my long slumber; you reproached me with sacrificing the welfare of the country to my repose. I have traversed the seas through perils of every kind; I return among you to reclaim my rights, which are you.**

Napoléon rubbed his chin, calculating and sure of himself the people and army would welcome him back. He was less optimistic about the French provinces where royalists thrived. But from what he knew in general, the people were generally dissatisfied with the King’s policies. Napoléon thought they had a good reason to fear among many things they may lose, such as the property they had paid. That land was initially confiscated from the Catholic Church's hands and the aristocracy during the years of the revolution. Since then, the land-ownership had been passed out to many different owners’ for more than twenty years.

_Suppose the King ever attempted to force the peasants to renounce their property. In that case, the consequences could be potentially disastrous, and it may likely lead to a second revolution_.

Napoléon reviewed the third and final proclamation, which was an appeal of the Imperial Guard he had written on their behalf. His officers all signed their names. The wording was not theirs, but he knew it reflected their genuine attitude in wanting to see him reclaim being France's ruler once again. The first sentence he read was his favorite of the proclamation, and he savored every word.

**Fellow Soldiers-We have preserved for you your Emperor, notwithstanding the numerous snares that have been laid for him,-we restore him to you, after traversing the ocean, where he was surrounded by a thousand dangers-we have arrived on the sacred soil of our country.**

Napoléon continued reading the proclamation until he was done. The written contents were satisfactory to him. All done now. Napoléon carefully folded the papers and put them back in his outer pocket. Wearily, he eased himself off his chair and went over to his nearby bed, then knelt beside it and pulled out a dark brown trunk from underneath the wooden mattress frame. He unlocked the chest with the key he had carefully kept in his left pocket and opened the lid. Inside, the trunk contained all the small belongings he took with him to Elba. It included several historical books he enjoyed reading and maps of the many countries he had campaigned in many years ago.

Napoléon began pushing aside the contents, searching for two items in particular. Before long, he retrieved what he sought. He again returned to the desk where he gently cleared away everything off the surface except his candle-light. He laid upon it the important objects taken from the trunk. One was a large and extraordinarily detailed tan-colored map of France, and the other, a round chart magnifying glass. He peered through the magnifier and closely examined the area of France's southeastern coast. He absorbed all the black ink names of the major and minor towns, cities, villages, ports, and fortresses.

Napoléon searched for any possible oversight in the travel routes logistics of his plan. At this stage, any errors must be corrected now, he reminded himself. He was acutely aware that it could jeopardize his entire enterprise if even a small detail were left out. He frowned, knowing it would not be easy for him as soon as he landed in France. The southern areas were filled with royalist enclaves.

_Indeed, at least a bold handful would likely shoot me on sight. Local soldiers there, and in other parts of France, might even try to either arrest or kill me out of their newfound fealty to the King_. _A civil war must be avoided no matter what_.

He hoped to avoid that grim possibility when he would inevitably come across various army units with his small but intrepid army. Napoléon shuddered at the very thought of it. He was certain such an event would destroy his chance of gaining France and be seen as a ruthless invader by the French people.

He relied on evidence from his informants that the French people’s massive support for his return to power would force the King to leave France, and thus, avoid the chance of civil war. The King had already alienated the people under his rule. Logically, it could only be concluded that most citizens and soldiers would rally to him, their Emperor and savior.

Napoléon moved the magnifier over the French coast that was close to the Italian border. He now scrutinized the destination point, which he had selected a few days earlier. Here his forces would disembark at a bay between the coastal town of Antibes and Fort Carré.

_If I successfully win over the local garrisons, I will have a good start with a much stronger army_.

It seemed reasonable enough to him. Such an enlarged force should be enough to ensure royalist populations' passivity in nearby towns, villages, and cities. He looked at the name of the fort on the map. “I cannot believe I would see the very fort I was briefly imprisoned in all those years ago.” He unhappily mumbled to himself.

The name of the fort brought back old memories from the past. Napoléon had been arrested twenty-one years ago because he was associated with the Robespierre brothers after the Thermidorians toppled them. He had been accused of being a secret royalist. Fortunately, his neck was saved from the guillotine by the Corsican deputy, Antoine Christophe Saliceti. Napoléon missed the fellow, who died six years earlier in 1809.

Saliceti had been a friend to his family and was of invaluable assistance in a troubling time. Due to his help, Napoléon was given command of the artillery during the Siege of Toulon. His battle plan enabled the stunning French victory at that strategic port during the Revolutionary War. It was a stepping stone that had risen him to glory.

Saliceti resettled his mother and siblings in Marseilles after they were chased out of Corsica under the threat of death through a vendetta by the Corsican insurgent leader Pasquale Paoli. In his youth, Napoléon had admired that man as a patriot who wanted a liberated Corsica. He once shared Paoli’s dream and hated France as an occupying foreign power throughout his days as a young man while studying in France’s artillery school of Brienne-le-Château. His admiration of Paoli was shattered the moment the Bonaparte family were declared to be traitors and forced off the island as fugitives.

The events were so vividly planted in Napoléon’s memory. It all happened in the aftermath of a disastrous French military expedition of 1792-1793 to Sardinia. It was a botched-up mission, no thanks to Paoli’s foolish nephew, Colonna Cesari. The idiot had inadequately supported him even after he had successfully taken control of the fortress of Santo Stefano. He had been nearly left behind when the nephew ordered a withdrawal without his knowledge. The captured cannons were spiked before departure. Since Paoli was the one who was called to send this expedition to Sardinia, he was accused of deliberately sabotaging the invasion and declared a traitor by the French government.

In vain, Napoléon tried defending Paoli against the rumors. Saliceti, as France’s Corsican deputy, went along with the French government and publicly condemned Paoli. Lucien Bonaparte, too, had shared the same open sentiment. In retaliation, Paoli, who was still well-supported by much of Corsica, drove his family, the Bonapartes, out of the island. Since then, Napoléon came to see France as his new adopted homeland. The English had temporarily ruled his old place of birth. When they left and took Paoli with them to England, where, while still in exile, he died in 1807.

Napoléon mused over what could have happened differently. Would he have remained loyal to the notion of an independent Corsica? Even if Saliceti and Lucien had never condemned Paoli, Corsica likely would have fallen to the English. It probably would have driven him into the arms of France regardless. In the end, in hindsight, he determined it worked out better for him to be French than stayed on as a Corsican nationalist.

Napoléon went back to his immediate task, gazed at the most massive city map name, and his primary objective – Paris. He had sworn to himself to enter Paris on the 20th of March in honor of the birthday of his now three-year-old son, Napoléon François Charles Joseph Bonaparte.

_My promise will be kept._

Napoléon finished the remainder of the hot coffee and snuffed out his bright candle-light. He was satisfied with his planning, and he packed away his large map and magnifier back into the trunk and pushed it underneath his bed. Then he prepared for bed, removing his two-pointed black bicorn hat that always kept his dark brown hair flat and straight, and settled it on the desk. That was followed by the unpinning of his intricate medals. They were the coveted two _Legion of Honor_ decorations of the first and fifth degrees and _The Order of the Iron Crown_ of the second class. Napoléon was so fond of them; they were worn consistently by him ever since he had founded those two orders of merit. In a way, he viewed them as a proud extension of himself. 

Napoléon undressed out of one of his traditional uniforms he wore –a colonel of the _Grenadiers_ _à Pied d_ _e la Garde Impériale_. It was a dark blue jacket with red cuffs, white lapels, facings, and white breeches. In a way, it amused him he wore this uniform. He was only 5’7. If he were just an average soldier, his height would have disqualified him from joining the Old Guard Grenadiers. 5’10 was the minimum height. Only those rewarded with the _Legion of Honor_ were exempted from the height requirement. 

He was always content with these simple clothes compared to his marshals' fancy attire. That reminded Napoléon of Marshal Murat, who was widely known across Europe for his excessive flamboyant military style. _The Dandy King,_ many soldiers called him. A fitting name for Murat.

His belt was unbuckled, removed, and settled on the desk, along with his attached black sheathed, thrusting sword he had worn with him since the Battle of Austerlitz. He unsheathed it slowly. It had been a while since the last time he saw it in all its glory. A fantastic piece of art that never bored his attention. Now a symbol of his status as the supreme commander of the Grande Armée. The handle was made of gold with a foliage design. A round portrait of his head was embedded in the center.

The blue-tinged steel blade itself was straight, and the color was due to having been heated over burning charcoal, turning the silver color to bright blue. The bottom half of the blade was painted with gilded golden leaves on the flat surface – created from mixing powdered gold with mercury and burnt off by the heat, leaving the painting behind. The steel was thick at the base, starting from above the sword guard and the tapering thinner to the sword’s sharp tip. The curved gold knuckle bow was connected from the end of the sword guard to the round pommel. Napoléon had not forgotten about Martin Guillaume Biennais, the goldsmith who had forged this beautifully crafted weapon. Napoléon lovingly returned his honored sword blade to its sheath.

Exerting some last effort for the night, he slipped off his long knee-high black boots. Now, only wearing the rest of his all-white attire of a long-sleeved shirt, kerseymere breeches, and silk stockings. Napoléon slipped underneath the bedsheets. His first day of real freedom was a long time coming as he dreamed of it lasting him up to Paris.

* * *

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-Marshal Ney The Bravest of the Brave, A. H. Atteridge.

-1815 The Return of Napoleon, Paul Britten Austin.

-Napoleon’s Marshals, David G. Chandler.

-The Campaigns of Napoleon, David G. Chandler.

* * *

[1] All three proclamations in their original entirety.

Napoléon’s Proclamation to the Army.

Soldiers: We have not been conquered; two men, sprung from our ranks, have betrayed our laurels, their country, their benefactor, and their prince. Those whom we have beheld for twenty-five years traversing all Europe to raise up enemies against us, who have spent their lives in fighting against us in the ranks of foreign armies, and in cursing our beautiful France, shall they pretend to command or enchain our eagles?—they who have never been able to look them in the face. Shall we suffer them to inherit the fruit of our glorious toils, to take possession of our honors, of our fortunes; to calumniate and revile our glory? If their reign were to continue all would be lost, even the recollection of those memorable days. With what fury they misrepresent them! They seek to tarnish what the world admires; and if there still remain defenders of our glory, they are to be found among those very enemies whom we have confronted in the field of battle. Soldiers: in my exile I have heard your voice; I have come back in spite of all obstacles, and all dangers. Your general, called to the throne by the choice of the people, and raised on your shields, is restored to you; come and join him. Mount the tri-colored cockade; you wore it in the days of our greatness. We must never forget that we have been the masters of nations; but we must not suffer any to intermeddle with our affairs. Who would pretend to be master over us? Who would have the power? Resume those eagles which you had at Ulm, at Austerlitz, at Jena, at Eylau, at Wagram, at Friedland, at Tudela, at Eckmuhl, at Essling, at Smolensk, at the Moskowa, at Lutzen, at Wurtchen, at Montmirail. The veterans of the armies if the Sambre and Meuse, of the Rhine, of Italy, of Egypt, of the West, of the Grand Army, are illuminated; their honorable scars are stained; their successes would be crimes; the brave would be rebels, if, as the enemies of the people pretend, the legitimate sovereigns were in the midst of foreign armies. Honors, recompenses, favors, are reserved for those who have served against the country and against us. Soldiers: Come and range yourselves under the banners of your chief; his existence is only made up of yours; his interest, his honor. His glory, are no other than your interest, your honor, and your glory. Victory shall march at a charging step; the eagle, with the national colors, shall fly from steeple to steeple, till it reaches the towers of Notre Dame. Then you will be able to show your scars with honor; then you will be able to boast of what you have done; you will be the liberators of your country! In your old age, surrounded and looked up to by your fellow citizens, they will listen to you with respect as you recount your high deeds; you will each of you be able to say with pride, ‘And I also made part of that grand army which entered twice within the walls of Vienna, within those of Rome, of Berlin, of Madrid, of Moscow, and which delivered Paris from the stain which treason and the presence of the enemy had imprinted upon it.’ Honor to those brave soldiers, the glory of their country!

Napoléon’s Proclamation to the People of France.

Frenchmen: the defection of the Duc de Castiglione delivered Lyons without defense to our enemies. The army, the command of which I had entrusted to him, was, by the number of its battalions, the courage and patriotism of the troops that composed it, in condition to beat the Austrian troops opposed to it, and to arrive in time on the rear of the left flank of the army which threatened Paris. The victories of Champaubert, Montmirail, Château-Thierry, Van Champs, Mormant, Montereau, Craonne, Rheims, Arcis-sur-Aube and Saint Dizier, the rising of the brave peasants of Lorraine and Champagne, of Alsace, Franche-Comté and Burgundy, and the position which I had taken at the rear of the hostile army, by cutting it off from its magazines, its parks of reserve, its convoys, and all the equipages, had placed it in a desperate situation. The French were never on the point of being more powerful, and the elite of the enemy’s army was lost without resource; it would have found a tomb in those vast plains which it had so mercilessly laid waste, when the treason of the Duc de Ragusa delivered up the capital and disorganized the army. The unexpected misconduct of these two generals, who betrayed at once their country, their prince, and their benefactor, changed the fate of the war; the situation of the enemy was such that, at the close of the action which took place before Paris, he was without ammunition, in consequence of his separation from his parks of reserve. In these new and distressing circumstances, my heart was torn, but my mind remained immovable; I only consulted the interests of the country; I banished myself to a rock in the middle of the sea; my life was yours, and might still be useful to you. Frenchmen: in my exile I heard your complaints and your wishes; you accused my long slumber; you reproached me with sacrificing the welfare of the country to my repose. I have traversed the seas through perils of every kind; I return among you to reclaim my rights, which are you.

Napoléon’s Proclamation from the Imperial Guard.

Fellow Soldiers-We have preserved for you your Emperor, notwithstanding the numerous snares that have been laid for him,-we restore him to you, after traversing the ocean, where he was surrounded by a thousand dangers-we have arrived on the sacred soil of our country, and bring with us the national cockade and the imperial eagle; trample, then, on the white cockade; it is the monument of your shame; the badge of the yoke which treason has imposed on you-in vain have we bled if we are to receive laws from those we have conquered. During the few months that the Bourbons have governed they have convinced the world that they have learnt nothing, and that they have forgotten nothing. They have been, throughout, swayed by prejudices equally inimical to our rights, and to the rights of the people. Those who have borne arms against their country, and against us, are the heroes of the day-you are the rebels, whose pardon they extended until such time as they shall have entrenched themselves by corps of emigrants, by introduction of foreign guards, and by supplanting your old officers for new ones. With them the passport to reward is to have borne arms against our country-to become an officer they require a birth comfortable to their own prejudice-the soldier is always to remain a soldier-the people are to bear the burdens-they to engross the honors. A Vioménil, who should himself have reposed on the clemency of the laws for pardon and amnesty, dares to insult the conqueror of Zurich, by naturalizing him. Frenchmen, a Brulart, A Chouan, an assassin of Georges commands one of your legions. Our _Legion of Honor_ they have not yet dared to destroy: but they have debased it, by prostituting it to traitors; our political privileges-privileges purchased by our blood, they have totally annihilated. The four hundred million of Domaine Extraordinaire, on which our revenues were founded, the patrimony of the army, the pledges of its successes, they have transferred to England. Soldiers of the great nation-Soldiers of Napoléon the great, can you remain dependent on a prince who has been, for twenty years, the enemy of France, and who boasts that he owes his throne to the Prince Regent of England? All this has been done without our consent, and without the consent of the people, without consulting either of us, we declare to be illegal. Soldiers-The General sounds and we march-fly to your arms: rally round our standard; rejoin your Emperor and his eagles.

Signed

Brigadier-General, Baron Cambronne, Major of the Foot Guards Regiment of the Guard; Lieutenant-Colonel, Knight Mallet. Artillery of the Guard: Cornuel, Raoul, Captains; Lanoue, Demons, Lieutenants. Infantry of the Guard: Loubert, Lamourette, Montez, Combes, Captains; Dequeux, Thibault, Chaumet, Franconnin, Mallet, Lieutenants; Laborde, Emery, Moisot, Arnauld. Chevau-light of the Guard: Baron Jerzmanowski, Major; Balinski, Schultz, Captains; Fintoski and Skjronski, Lieutenants. Signed: The General of Division, aide-de-camp of His Majesty the Emperor, General-aid of the Guard, Count Drouot.

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	2. Close-Call

_February 27 th, 1815_

Napoléon woke up fresh from his usual short sleep, and then he ate a simple breakfast of several slices of toasted brown bread and a hunk of cheese. When he finished, his valet, Marchand, took the empty wooden plates down to the gallery. He returned a short moment later, where he dutifully stood by, ready for his next instructions. The ship’s Captain Chautard had been summoned to make his report entered. He looked apprehensive when he said to Napoléon that very little progress was made since the night before. The fleet had only gained six miles from the shoreline by dawn as the lack of wind still deprived the convoy of its need for a speedy departure.[1] After he gave his report, Napoléon irately dismissed Chautard without fanfare.

Napoléon was annoyed by the dismal update, but nothing could be done about it. The only thing he did to pass the time was reading one of his books from the trunk. He picked out Frederick the Great’s 1740 campaign of Silesia, the most extraordinary military leader of his era. Napoléon considered the Prussian King one of the seven greatest strategists of his generation, ranking him alongside Alexander the Great, Hannibal Barca, Julius Caesar, Gustavus Adolphus, and Marshal Turrene, and Eugene of Savoy in that order of greatness. Napoléon asked himself how history would judge his military capabilities through the ages. He abruptly stopped reading when he felt the ship moving. There was the sound of waves splashing against the ship’s hull. The Captain reappeared to report that the wind was finally picking up. Napoléon was relieved by the news – the feared possibility of his fleet spending the entire day of drifting helplessly on the water now began to disappear.

An hour later, Captain Chautard reported that the look-out from the crow’s nest had spotted an English craft about thirty nautical miles away on the north-eastern horizon. The British vessel was sailing south behind their north-westerly route. Chautard was ordered to continue his course for southern France.

_I hope the English ship will not spot us and then pursue us out of suspicion._

The _Inconstant_ was painted to resemble an English vessel before he left Elba. Napoléon calculated that suspicion could be avoided with his ship flying the Union Jack flag from the mast. At the same time, the rest of his fleet used the Elba coat of arms. He had wanted to paint the other six ships, but it was impossible due to the task being quite time-consuming. Only time would tell if the English vessel would pursue.

Chautard returned within thirty anxious minutes, informing Napoléon that the ship was not pursuing the fleet.

_Either the ruse worked, or the English ship never paid any serious attention to my fleet._

Whatever may have been the reason, Napoléon was glad the English did not come after him. He wondered if the ship was the _HMS_ _Partridge_. Weeks earlier, it had left Elba, conveying the British official, Colonel Sir Neil Campbell, to Florence, Italy. He had been assigned to monitor Napoléon to ensure the exile conditions were adhered to by the new Emperor of Elba. Now, he had to make a trip to the Italian mainland for health reasons. Though apprehensive in taking his leave from Napoléon’s presence, the Englishman was fortunately duped by his feigned activities of being content to stay on the island while Campbell was away.

_If you never left, I could not have escaped._

It was a fantastic event for Napoléon. The _Partridge_ took the Englishman to Florence on February 16th, where Campbell told him he wanted to stay for ten days. It was the rare window of opportunity Napoléon had taken advantage of to quickly to ready an escape. The _Partridge_ had unexpectedly returned a few days before Napoléon initially planned to leave Elba. Fortunately for him, his plot went undiscovered. The English Captain Ayde of _HMS Partridge_ never suspected anything. The British warship departed from Elba to pick up Campbell.

_Two close calls now._

Luck had favored him. During the early afternoon, at one o'clock, Captain Chautard reported to him the fleet had neared the northern tip of the island of Capraia. Also, two French warships on the horizon; one ship was in the north, and the second was seen in the south-west. Both bore the white colors of the King of France. Napoléon calmly ordered Chautard to maintain the original course to southern France. Napoléon stayed seated at his desk, continuing to read his book to try to keep himself distracted. Getting by one English ship was fortunate enough, but getting past two French ships flying royal colors was a different problem. Either one of those two vessels could independently pursue his fleet. The peril now doubled – but if the French Royalist ships sighted the _Inconstant_ and its Union Jack flag, it might deter them from sailing toward the fleet.

Chautard came back with welcome news; that the French ships had not set a course for the Elban vessels. Just like the English ship hours ago, the two ships had sailed away. Napoléon was relieved by the news. He was stunned; his luck favored him again on the same day.

_Maybe there is a higher power watching out for me._

Napoléon was glad the two ships paid no serious attention to his fleet. He had been aware of those two ships’ existence, fulfilling their duty in patrolling the waters between Corsica and the islands of Capraia and Gorgona. He had hoped to slip by them during last night, but the lack of wind grounded the fleet.

Napoléon checked his pocket watch. The time was a quarter before two. His book was put away in the trunk, and he brought out his map of France. It was unfolded and laid out on the desk. Afterward, Napoléon sent his valet to summon three of his commanders for a meeting.

First to arrive was his loyal commander of the Guard infantry, the grim-faced Cambronne. Grand Marshal of the Palace, Divisional General, Count Henri-Gatien Bertrand, came in next. His wavy brown hair was less curly than Cambronne’s own. Unlike Cambronne’s angular face, Bertrand’s was rounder. He displayed a calm, reserved appearance, compared to the former, whose expression was stern and strict. Last to enter the cabin was Napoléon’s appointed Governor of Elba, Divisional General, Count Antoine Drouot. He had a noble-like grace as always, with his Grecian nose, sunken cheeks, straight eyebrows, and light brown cropped hair receding along the top of his head. They all looked resplendent in their French General uniforms and military decorations worn on their blue coats. Napoléon invited them to come in and surround the map on the desk. Napoléon planted his finger on a particular area at the edge of France’s southeastern coast on his nation's chart.

He began speaking to them. “Messieurs, as you already knew in advance about our destined location, we will land here between the town of Antibes and Fort Carré that protects the harbor. I will send twenty-one Grenadiers from the Vielle Garde in longboats under Capitaine Lamouret to take Antibes and order its garrison to join me.” Napoléon next moved his finger over to the name of the fort located east across the harbor. “I shall do the same and send someone to tell the troops stationed in Fort Carré to come to my side. Royalists dominate southern France, and the people there will not likely warmly receive my return. If we fail to gather any soldiers there upon our landing, we will immediately leave quickly. We will take a specific route I know about that will lead us north into France’s heartland. There, we will likely gain better support while avoiding the rest of the region.”

General Cambronne cleared his throat. “Sire, there is a possible danger that they will sound the alarm and gather up any local troops in the area. Since we are invading France, there is also the risk that if we try to ferry ourselves across the harbor, then the fort’s guns would blow us all the pieces in the water. If we do successfully land on the shore, we may be forced to fight against our countrymen. If the situation drastically turned against us, God forbid it if we are thrown back into the sea.

Napoléon broke his attention from the map and turned to Cambronne. “I understand your concern, General. We will possibly face armed opposition, but there is also the likelihood we will gain strength from among the soldiers. I believe the expected benefits will greatly outweigh the risks.”

Drouot spoke in turn, “Sire, even if we are successful in regaining France, the King is well supported by those who had given him the throne. Our old enemies will not look upon your return with any kind of glee. They will view your arrival to France as a violation of the terms of the treaty ratified by Your Majesty at Fontainebleau. Consequently, France will probably bleed again. How can we defend ourselves against the full might of Britain, Austria, Russia, and Prussia in the event of War? If it went badly for us, then I think we will eventually end up repeat the fighting the war again on our soil just as we did a year ago, and it will surely not end well for us all.”

Napoléon understood Drouot’s concerns. He had already considered how Europe’s great powers might likely react as soon as they learned of his escape from Elba.

_It will either be peace or war._

He was sure the latter could probably occur. “Général Drouot, if it comes to war, we will be ready for them this time.” His vague assurance had done nothing to relieve Drouot, who still appeared concerned. “Let me verify what I mean. If we are forced to fight, our circumstances will not resemble the desperate situation we had to deal with a year ago. It will take the enemy many months to mobilize their forces against us and march to our borders. There would be plenty of time to improve our defenses and greatly augment the peacetime army’s size with hundreds of thousands of recruits. All the troops our enemies had released as prisoners of war will be called up to reinforce the army with hardened veterans. The odds will even out, and our chances of winning will be stronger.” Napoléon paused for a moment, and he looked at the map of France, with his focus set on the city of Paris. After an entire minute of silence, he shifted his sight to his three generals standing around the desk. “Will you all put your trust in me in my mission to regain France?” He inquired of them, wanting their complete support.

“Sire, I will always follow you,” Drouot answered first, displaying a face of indifference.

Napoléon turned to Cambronne and then to Bertrand. “Do the two of you trust in me to carry out my plans as well?”

“Sire, I would accompany you to the very gates of Hell,” Cambronne spoke with enthusiasm in his tone. “We have remained silent for too long now. It is time for us to make our appearance and save France from her misery.”

Bertrand, too, responded with similar vigor. “Should we go to war again, then I will stand beside Your Majesty and carry out my duties as your soldier and loyal subordinate.”

Napoléon was pleased with their answers and appreciated their unshakable faith for him. “Messieurs, within days, our destiny will soon reveal itself before us all, and it will either lead us to victory or our demise. There is no turning back.”

“We all understand the risk we are taking, sire,” Cambronne said on behalf of his fellow generals. “It will not damper our will to follow you.”

“Good. Messieurs, this meeting is now concluded.” Napoléon dismissed with a wave of his hand, and the three generals left the great cabin. He was happy with his commanders. Drouot’s honesty and integrity, along with Cambronne’s uncompromising bold attitude, and Bertrand’s sincere sense of loyalty to him, would undoubtedly prove useful upon returning to France.

_I will need them in one way or another._

Napoléon dwelled upon the plan he had come up with to defend France in the event of a likely conflict. The preparations he had explained to Drouot for a potential war was a logical one at best. It seemed reasonable…but then again, the results would probably have given him a very different picture if it was implemented. He was accustomed to disappointment, but he hated it. His thinking was momentarily interrupted when Marchand returned and stood in the corner again. Napoléon returned to his pondering. If it came to war, he might not be able to sufficiently coax the French people to take up arms in vast numbers and fight again, like they had done before time and again. He was not oblivious that the people were weary of war after they endured it for over twenty years, almost continuously. The long years of fighting consumed the lives of countless men. The only thing the people truly craved was lasting peace and the desire to live out their lives without interruption. Napoléon knew that as soon as he regained his power, he must publicly offer peace proposals to his old enemies to avoid another bloody war. If the monarchs refused to give him peace, then that was a useful propaganda tool to persuade highly patriotic men to join the army for the upcoming fight. He held onto the small hope of successfully convincing at least one of the four great powers of Europe to recognize the legitimacy of his rule over France. If he was lucky, then his problems might be alleviated. It was a slim hope at best, but it stood as a possibility and was worth the attempt.

_If it comes to war again, I will turn France into a massive tomb for the invaders. Then I will press for more suitable lasting peace terms with my old opponents after I had shattered their armies like a hammer on the glass._

Napoléon scoffed through a late lunch meal of chicken and steaming potatoes, along with a bowl of cherries. Feeling refreshed, he spent many hours of the afternoon on the deck socializing with his loyal soldiers and servants. He answered all sorts of questions regarding a variety of different subjects the men threw at him. He glanced at the _Inconstant’s_ masts. The wind was blowing strongly against the sails, and the sea was steady. As long as they remained that way, then France’s coast would be reached in days. Napoléon relieved Marchand for the rest of the day. His second valet, Mameluke Ali, appeared and followed him into his cabin.

Ali’s appearance reminded Napoléon, as he frequently did, of Roustam Raza. His faithful Mameluke bodyguard, of Armenian origins, had been enslaved when he was thirteen years old. He was later given to Napoléon at sixteen by the Sheik of Cairo during his 1799 Egyptian campaign. From that point onward, Roustam served him well for fifteen years until 1814. Ali was dressed in the same Mameluke attire as his predecessor. On duty, Ali always wore a white turban on his head. He was garbed in a red long-sleeved vest and a loose blue shirt worn over it, and his legs were outfitted in baggy red trousers. His boots were made from crimson leather.

Having been an assistant to Roustam, Louise Étienne Saint-Denis had naturally been chosen as a replacement of the latter a year ago. From that moment onward, he had been called ‘Mameluke Ali’ in place of his real name.

Napoléon still could not believe his supposedly faithful former Mameluke bodyguard, for whatever reason, had abandoned him a year ago just before he abdicated. It happened right after he had attempted to commit suicide with a poison vial Napoléon had carried when he invaded Russia.

Napoléon dined in the evening and resumed reading his book when suddenly someone knocked on his door. He closed the book and placed it on the desk, and allowed General Drouot to enter. He seemed worried. “Sire. Capitaine Chautard had spotted a vessel coming in from the south. It is a French ship, a brig most likely. It flies the white ensign of the Bourbon king.”

“Is the brig coming in our direction.”

“Yes, sire.”

“I see.” The chance of an actual fight worried him. Napoléon did not let it show on his face. “Come on. Let us tell the troops to lie down on the deck and remove their bearskin hats. Let us approach, and if we’re attacked, we may need to board the ship.”

“Understood, sire.” Drouot exited out of the residence, followed by Napoléon.

The task was quickly done, and then Napoléon stayed behind in his cabin, waiting to find out what would happen. Exposing himself to the opposing brig could compromise everything and give the coming ship a reason to open fire upon him. The time went by, and his anxiety grew as well.

Hopefully, there would not be a sea-battle. Napoléon held onto the chance that the approaching brig was not on a menacing mission. So far, no shots had been exchanged through cannons or muskets. That seemed to indicate a fight was unlikely.

It felt like many long minutes went by, and nothing occurred. The silence broke when Napoléon heard an exchange of friendly obscured words between Chautard and presumably the other vessel’s commander. The sentences spoken were very brief by the sound of it all. The conversation did not last long. There was no blazing cannon fire or crackling of muskets.

Captain Chautard returned to the cabin moments later, looking relieved. He reported the enemy ship had just departed and then gave details of the dialogue he had. He described how the two crafts came side-by-side. Chautard discovered that the French brig was the Zephyr, commanded by Captain Andrieux, who asked where the flotilla was bound. Chautard answered that the ship was heading for Genoa, Italy. Captain Andrieux mentioned his ship was heading to Livorno. Out of the blue, he asked how Napoléon was but referred to him as ‘the Great Man.’ Chautard replied that he was doing extraordinarily well.

“I thank you for giving me the report. It was a close thing that could have ended quite badly for us.” Napoléon remarked. Yet another narrow escape.

Though the _Inconstant_ was equipped with eighteen twenty-four-pounder carronades, his flotilla was not a battle-ready navy.

“A lucky moment for us all, sire.” The Captain shared the sentiment. “Come to think of it. I suspect that Capitaine Andrieux guessed what was going on and let us go. This brig is the only one painted like an English warship flying the Union Jack. I realized I accidentally exposed our cover by chatting in French with the Captain. I would not be surprised if he saw Your Majesty’s troops hiding on the deck at close range.

Napoléon was a bit stunned by all that. Did the opposing Captain just let him go, out of support for him? “You may return to your station.”

“I wish you a good evening, sire.”

Napoléon nodded. The Captain left him alone in the cabin. He granted leave to Ali for the night, and he departed the room. Napoléon put his mind at ease and resumed reading before going to bed just before midnight. Lying in his bed, he was contemplating his destiny. Maybe fate must have been generous enough to give him a second chance to restore his former glory. [2]

_It has always been my destiny to achieve great things._

Since the day the Austrians were defeated at the Battle of Lodi, Napoléon firmly believed that he was meant to become a great leader. He was right about that. So far, his hard work and determination had led him to a road of glory and disaster, and it was still not finished while he lived. His ambition remained unbroken. Napoléon slowly closed his eyes and drifted into a peaceful sleep.

[1] The Elba fleet only sailed 6 miles from Portoferraio by this day’s morning.

[2] Napoléon was superstitious. He believed in luck, especially on certain days like December 2 and June 14. He won some of his greatest battles on those two dates. E.g. Austerlitz, Friedland, and Marengo.


	3. Preparations

_February 28 th, 1815_

At daybreak, Napoléon was awakened by Chautard, who gave him the news that a Sardinian double-decker ship-of-the-line was spotted six nautical miles to the east. Undeterred, he directed the Captain to maintain their original course and not worry, for there was no necessity to be concerned about the lumbering warship. Only prowling English and French Royalist vessels were his most substantial difficulties. Chautard took his leave. A little later, the Captain’s second mate, a skinny bearded fellow, came and relayed to him that the Sardinian warship had sailed away. It proved him correct in not worrying about the ship-of-the-line. Napoléon ventured onto the main deck, with his two proclamations in hand and ordered every literate man on the deck to write down copies. He handed out to the soldiers and civilian staff – pens, bottles, and ink from leather and wooden cases along with some bundles of blank white pieces of paper.

Napoléon saw his diligent treasurer, Guillaume Peyrusse, sitting on the floor, with his back pressed against the mast's base. His head was buried in the folded brown long-sleeved arms of his double-breasted dark blue coat on bent knees pulled up to his chest. He went over and gently kicked Peyrusse in the ribs, getting his attention. Peyrusse lifted his head. He seemed sickly with a greenish color in his round, chubby, clean-shaven face. “Well, get down and join the rest of the pen-pushers,” Napoléon commanded.

“Sire. I am suffering quite a bit from a terrible headache and seasickness.” He sickly complained. “I humbly beg to be excused.”

“Oh, pooh, pooh.” Napoléon dismissed. It was a silly excuse. Peyrusse had participated in his military campaigns and experienced far worse circumstances in the past six years since he became his imperial treasurer in 1809. A little seasickness, by comparison, was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. “Seine water will cure all that.” Peyrusse made a doubtful shrug of his shoulder. “We _will_ be there to celebrate my son’s birthday when he turns four on the 20th of March, my friend.” He confidently declared. The treasurer got up and went to work with everyone else.

Feeling satisfied, Napoléon returned to his quarters to get some rest. He was interrupted when Chautard entered the accommodation. The Captain conveyed that the southern Italian coast was spotted to the north. Napoléon excitedly re-emerged onto the deck. All activity on the desk had ceased as everybody gazed northward. He gently pushed through the crowd and reached the wooden railing of the brig. Ali and Chautard stood to his left and right.

The Captain was viewing the shore through his telescope. Napoléon borrowed Chautard’s glass and peered through the lens, observing the sandy coast and green plains beyond it more vividly. It seemed like to him there was some sort of a large gathering of people on the sandy shore.

_Are they there because they spotted my fleet?_

He supposed it was possible. Napoléon was aware that the rest of the navy still hoisted the Elban flag – which he had designed. A white background crossed by a red diagonal bar on three yellow bees, coming down from the left corner. Were the Italians mindful of this? Through the lens, he observed the distant mountains of the Italian Alps. His history lessons of antiquity were recalled.

_The very mountainous range Hannibal Barca had crossed to invade the Roman Republic 2,000 years ago_.

The Italian coast would undoubtedly be passed within a matter of hours or by tomorrow. Napoléon yearned to see French soil again. He desired to plant his feet on that sacred ground once more, and this time, he intended to stay there. Having seen enough, Napoléon returned the scope to Chautard.

“Soldiers! Stand at attention around me!” His order was carried out, with soldiers scurrying about, forming up on the deck around him. The civil and domestic servants made way and stood behind the infantry lines. Drouot, Bertrand, Cambronne, and Peyrusse were at the front. He whispered into Marchand’s ear with instructions to gather what he needed. The valet came back from Napoléon’s cabin a few minutes later.

Napoléon called for Captain Chautard and Lieutenant François-Louis Taillade to stand before him. The _Inconstant’s_ commander and the lower-ranked officer advanced out of the surrounding Old Guard infantry ranks and moved into the area with him.

They removed their blue bicorn hats, revealing their commonly coffee-colored hair. The Captain’s hairstyle was flat while Taillade’s was thick and curly above his clean-shaven face while the superior ranked officer had a thin mustache.

Napoléon addressed them both. “Messieurs. The two of you have served me well for many months. Now that we are close to our fatherland, I wish to confer a reward to both of you.” Napoléon gestured to Marchand with his hand. His valet opened a small black wooden container, filled with dozens of crosses of the _Legion of Honor_ he had manufactured and took with him from Elba. All the badges were lined up in neat rows and in layers, nestled on top of each other. He reached in and took out two medals.

“I welcome you, Capitaine Chautard, as a member of my _Légion d'honneur_ , with the rank of Chevalier.” He pinned the medal to the Captain’s left chest. The decoration made his distinguished yellow braided paralleled frogging dolman jacket even more distinctive.

“I am deeply honored, sire.” Chautard gratefully bowed his head to him.

Napoléon moved in front of Taillade. “As for you, Lieutenant Taillade. I grant you the right to carry this prestigious decoration, bearing the rank of Chevalier.” He attached the badge to the officer’s blue double-breasted jacket over his left breast. He thought the conduct of Taillade made up for his sailing incidents that damaged the _Inconstant_ last month in January, and he was relieved of command of the ship to Chautard. Despite that blemish on his record, Taillade was still retained for his useful services.

“Words alone are not enough to express my gratitude to you, sire.” The Lieutenant’s mouth moved into a pleased smile.

“Vive L’Empereur!” A Grenadier yelled, brandishing his musket. Everyone followed the gesture several times, roaring _Vive L’Empereur!_

“Careful, we don’t want the Italians to know I am aboard this ship.” Napoléon rebuked humorously, amusing the men. “It will not be long now, everyone. France is so very close to us. We shall save the people from their misery.”

“Vive la France!” Marchand cried out. The troops again chanted those same words three times over. The gathering was done, and everyone upon Napoléon’s command returned to writing down the copies of his proclamations.

In the late evening, Napoléon invited Bertrand to play chess. He chose white, and the General played as black. The match went well for Napoléon. He effectively removed Bertrand’s queen in the first few turns, but later, the same loss was inflicted against him. When it was his move again, he cheated when Bertrand yawned with his eyes fleetingly closed. His rook was sent diagonally to a different nearby spot to make his illicit move look less noticeable.

Bertrand knew he took his turn. It seemed like the General never suspected he had been cheated. Rules did not matter to Napoléon. The triumph was the only thing that counted. He remembered, back on Elba, when his mother once caught him cheating during a game of cards, with money at stake. 

The game grew quite intense. Napoléon struggled, and so did Bertrand. He once tried to end the match by removing one of Bertrand’s pieces in his second line and place one of his own to trap and checkmate the king. He nearly succeeded in winning, but his opponent understood the situation, and he soon shattered Napoléon’s plan.

In the middle of the match, he regarded chess to be as strategic as warfare. The infantry was just like the pawns. In battle, they were typically the first units sent into action. His second line of pieces was like reserves, kept back until there was an excellent opportunity to deliver a decisive blow to the adversary.

Napoléon enjoyed those swift, decisive battles he had fought. Where he speedily outflanked his sluggish opponents, inflicted a fatal blow at the right time, and won the fight with only minimal losses.

His most outstanding campaigns were fought from 1796-1807—eleven years of glory. The military expedition he had led to Egypt and Syria in 1798 was disastrous in the end. He was unvanquished in the field, except for his failed Siege of Acre. To him, he viewed the whole affair as a minor blight in his best years of warfare.

On the chessboard, it was remarkable that certain pieces like the rook and the bishop could easily cover a great distance. That reminded Napoléon of when he skillfully encircled and demolished a large Austrian force in southern Germany in 1805. The Austrian commander, Karl Mack von Leiberich, capitulated in Ulm, Bavaria, with thirty-thousand soldiers, cannons, flags, and high-ranking officers. Soon afterward, he had won his most significant victory at the Battle of Austerlitz, just north of the Austrian capital city, Vienna. He used deception by feigning weakness. The results were astounding.

_They had played right into my hands at Austerlitz._

Napoléon cracked open a small smile over his remembrances during the game. He moved his knight, finishing his turn. Napoléon then grasped that there was also a very bloody nature inherent in chess. It could quickly turn into a contest of pure attritional fighting. He reflected on the many horrific drawn-out engagements that had been fought before when no other options were left for a quick win.

One especially came into mind: The Battle of Borodino took place before Moscow's gates three years ago. After the bloody combat’s conclusion, he was given the full casualty report from all the units that had actively participated in the struggle. Napoléon evoked how deeply bothered he felt when he had learned his army suffered around thirty-thousand casualties, including dozens of brilliant generals and hundreds of capable officers.

_I always hated those attritional battles_.

They were costly, especially in his veteran soldiers' lives, men he could scarcely afford to replace. Napoléon halted his train of old memories and placed complete focus on the game.

They both found excellent opportunities to take out any lonely pieces on the board. At the same time, they endeavored to preserve their own in the process. In the end, Napoléon enclosed and checkmated Bertrand’s King in the top right corner of the board with what remained of his pieces: the king, one rook, and a bishop. Bertrand had two pawns, a knight and the sovereign. Napoléon examined the results, and this was what he deemed as a pyrrhic victory on his part.

_Perhaps this was what King Pyrrhus of Epirus had felt in the aftermath of his costly victories against Rome._

“That was an excellent match, sire. Well played.” Bertrand graciously complimented.

“Thank you,” Napoléon pushed the pieces and chessboard to the side of the desk. “Tell me, how many copies of the proclamations were written down?”

“My two colleagues and all the others involved were able to get down a hundred, but we ran out of paper to continue. That includes the writing materials provided by Your Majesty’s civil servants. I was able to write at least five copies myself, but my right hand was quite sore from the work.”

“That explains everything,” Napoléon smirked. “I wondered why you were only using your left hand in chess.” They both chuckled with each other over the jape.

“With only the insignificant resources we had available and used up, I fear your proclamations would not have a powerful impact on the nation as a whole.” Bertrand grimly noted. “It probably won’t be enough.”

Napoléon disapproved of Bertrand’s lack of confidence. “When we reach France, we must get to the friendlier parts of the nation – especially the large towns and cities where we can use printing presses to mass-produce the two proclamations safely. The power of my papers may be minuscule in quantity right now. Still, when we dispense them to sympathetic civilians along the way northward, they shall inevitably spread like wildfire in a dry forest. Eventually, the copies will be sent to the nearest printing presses in other parts of France. The cycle will continually repeat itself until my words are a common read throughout the nation. My proclamations are the equivalent of a little spark. It will ignite the nation, ready to explode for me.” His first two papers would rally the people and the army to his side. He would use the third one to capitalize further and fully exploit the hostile sentiment against the Bourbons.

_Only when the time is right for me._

Bertrand nodded in agreement. “I will now return to my quarters and get some deserved rest – I wish you a good night, sire.” His general turned around, ambled out of the cabin. Napoléon was brimming with confidence in himself. 


	4. Rough Start

_March 1 st, 1815_

The fleet entered the harbor’s mouth between Antibes and Fort Carré this morning. Longboats were lowered from the deck and put onto the water. For hours, his army was ferried from the fleet to the shore. When it was finally Napoléon’s turn, the flotilla's guns had fired a blank volley as he disembarked from the _Inconstant._ According to his watch, it was 5:00 in the afternoon. He was the last to leave the ship. Ten Marines of the Guard rowed him toward the French shore. The other eleven accompanied in a separate longboat from the right, twenty feet away. His entire Elba force and all his personal belongings had already been rowed ashore from the fleet.

Napoléon stood at the fore-end of the longboat, with his hands held behind his back. The oars splashed through the water while their commander uttered the word ‘stroke’ repeatedly. He felt quite exhilarated, at long last. The shores of France were now in his direct sight.

His army waited for him in multiple long lines on the grass beyond the sandy shore. The civilian servants were clustered next to the coastline, with Napoléon’s three-horsed carriage and personal baggage.

In the center, the Old Guard infantry and gunners were put together into their blue linear block. The Corsican volunteers were positioned to the right of them. The pair of four-pounder guns and seven wagons that carried the army’s muskets and ammunition were set in front of the Corsicans. His Polish Old Guard lancers were placed adjacent to the Old Guard infantry’s left side. Their red over white pennant flags attached to the lances made them instantly noticeable. The seven Mamelukes and Horse Chasseurs were at the front rank and easily stuck out amongst the homogenous Polish horsemen. His mounted Corsican Gendarmes were seen behind the Old Guard infantry.

_It is very close now_.

Napoléon felt a little tempted to jump aboard and swim to the shore, but knowing his Marines, they would prevent him from doing just that. It was a silly thought. He kept his sight fixed on the French shore as his longboat closed in the distance between him and the country he loved so much. Napoléon counted what he guessed to be the number of yards he stood away from the shore on his boat. The strokes of the oars and the waves pushed his longboat toward the land.

Napoléon turned his head to the east and beheld the four-pointed star-shaped Fort Carré, overlooking the harbor. No alarm was raised. Not even a warning shot was fired from one of the cannons ever since his ships entered the port. Strangely, it was still completely silent. No soldiers from the ramparts of the stronghold were spotted joyfully waving at him. There was no disturbance on the beach, with no confrontation of any kind from local troops. Hours ago, after they entered the harbor, the fleet had hoisted the outlawed red, white, and blue tricolor flags in the place of the Union Jack from the _Inconstant_ and the Elba coat of arms in the rest of the flotilla.

Napoléon initially had hoped that calculated gesture would have gained the attention of any sympathetic onlooker from Fort Carré and Antibes. Replacing the Elban flag with the tricolor would have heavily suggested to nearby local garrisons that he, their Emperor, had returned to France. “Row harder. We are nearly there!” Napoléon encouraged his men on the oars. 

“You heard the Emperor, row harder!” One of the Guard Sailors bellowed. The speed of the longboat changed.

_Ten yards left now_.

Napoléon eagerly beamed. French soil at long last, after ten months of living in abdication. When the transport came into shallow water, all the men jumped out and pushed the vessel until it ran up against the dry sandy shore. Napoléon grabbed the edge of the boat and stepped out, planting his black riding boots on French sand for the first time in so long. It felt incredible for him to be back. He could not wait to see the rest of his country on his way to Paris.

Napoléon declared in a loud, clear voice, strong enough for all his men on the shore to hear him. Their attention was focused on him when he spoke. “Soldiers of France, fifteen years ago, I decorated you with the name of Country of the Great Nation! I salute you anew and in the same circumstances! One of your children, the most glorious to bear this beautiful title, comes again to deliver you from anarchy, nothing for me, everything for France!”

Hundreds of men cheered for him, along with mixed cries of _Vive L’Empereur_! Napoléon predicted that yell would soon be hollered by many millions of voices throughout the nation when Paris was his again. Then, he relayed his orders. He instructed Guillaume Peyrusse and the civilian staff to obtain mules from anywhere nearby to transport all his baggage and gold and help pull the pair of guns and wagons.[1]A small party of men was directed to check Fort Carré and order the garrison to join him.

Napoléon marched inland with the rest of his force until they came across a large olive grove situated north of a stone-paved road. From there, Napoléon waited for Captain Lamouret to return to the coast with the Antibes garrison in tow. He was animated. The landing in France had gone well so far. If all proceeded fine for him, then his army would probably more than double in size, assuming that many troops were garrisoned at Antibes and Fort Carré.

With the sunset, the evening air became colder by the hour. A small fire was lit. A three-legged brown leather cushioned wooden chair, borrowed from a sympathetic elderly local who lived close to the grove, was provided for him underneath an olive tree's thick branches. 

Shortly after, he was told by his returning scouts that Fort Carré was surprisingly deserted, with the guns stripped away. It was strange. A fort was always supposed to be manned. He wondered who ordered the fortress to be abandoned and removed of its artillery.

Many more campfires were lit in the grove. His troops relaxed all around him, talking, eating, and sleeping. Napoléon slouched in his seat and fell asleep.

He was stirred from his nap when someone spoke to him. “Sire?”

Napoléon slowly opened his eyes. Marchand was in his view. “Sire, we have two soldiers here who claimed they have important information for only you, sire.”

His valet moved aside. Two infantrymen standing a few yards away were revealed, wearing their black shakos, dark blue jackets with closed white lapels, same-colored waistcoats, and wool trousers tucked under black gaiters, along with double white crossbelts held their short sheathed briquet sabers and the black cartridge boxes. Beige greatcoats were rolled on top of the cowhide knapsacks. The Charleville 1777 model the two Fusiliers were armed with remained as the primary weapon.

“And who are you both?” Napoléon asked the two fusiliers.

The soldier with curly auburn hair and a hooked nose spoke up first. “I am Sergent Adel, sire.”

“And I am Caporal Anton, sire.” The officer introduced himself next. He had a narrower face, shorter curled hair, and trimmed sideburns.

Napoléon switched his attention to the number stamped onto their semicircular bronze plate positioned below the crowned eagle on the front of their black shakos. They came from the 87th Line Regiment. The dark green small round pompons set right above the eagle marked them as members of the 1st Fusilier company in one of the regiment’s battalions.

“Where did both of you come from?” Napoléon questioned.

“From Antibes, sire,” Adel answered. “We have made our way here because we know what happened to your men, Your Majesty.”

“Tell me, what happened to them exactly?” Napoléon urgently demanded. “Give me copious details.” He anticipated terrible news.

Anton began his explanation. “Sire, our commander, Colonel d’Ornano, had arrested of a party of twenty-one men after they attempted to convince the garrison of Antibes to join you. Your Majesty’s men are locked inside a prison cell right now. The Colonel also had sent a message to Maréchal Masséna, who should be at Marseilles. Colonel d’Ornano is probably preparing the town even as we speak, and I am certain he will most likely send for any nearby reinforcements.” He finished talking.

“I see,” Napoléon said with disappointment. “I presume you two are here to join me?”

Their shared elation was apparent. “Yes, sire.” Anton readily said. “That was our second reason for coming here.”

“I will gladly join you, sire,” Adel answered ardently.

Napoléon grinned appreciatively. “Both of you have made the correct choice. You may leave now.” The two lowly ranked officers left him alone.

Napoléon pulled out his bronze pocket watch and checked the time before returning it into the outer pocket of his gray coat. It was half an hour past seven in the evening.

_It has been more than two hours since I left the ship and landed upon the shores of France for the first time in ten months_ , _and I am already having difficulties._

Napoléon gripped the sides of the cushioned leather armrests of his chair, out of frustration. He waited for Lamouret’s party for nothing, and he ended up wasting ten good hours of his precious time. He prayed that Cambronne and his group of forty men dispatched four and a half hours ago had made better progress in the next town of Cannes to the west. He could ill afford another failure. Napoléon immediately set himself to work.

The fleet that transported him and his small army through the Ligurian Sea sailed away for Elba after Peyrusse paid them eleven-thousand francs for their services. Napoléon knew that retreat was not an option for him to take under any circumstances with the ships away.

For many hours during the evening, four men in succession were sent to Antibes to secure his men's release. The first one never came back. Napoléon believed he was arrested. The second man he dispatched was ordered to sneak into Antibes, but he never returned. The third one was given a letter Napoléon wrote, meant for the commander Colonel d’Ornano. He hoped he could bribe the Colonel with promises, rewards, and even higher commissions. His attempt was unsuccessful when the emissary arrived with the letter. The fourth man was lent one of the two only available horses disembarked from the fleet. He ended up reporting back to Napoléon that the gate of Antibes was firmly closed. The sentry on the ramparts had threatened to shoot him if he came any closer.

Napoléon was frustrated. His number of attempts to liberate his soldiers was useless, and he used up more valuable time. He knew he could not afford to stay here any longer than necessary. Reinforcements loyal to the King could well be on the way. It was impractical to besiege Antibes protected by its thick stone star-shaped bastions. His pair of four-pounders were unusable. Those guns were brought purely for effect to help him bluff his way through any opposition in France and not for any kind of actual use. Even with ammunition, it was impossible to penetrate the formidable walls of Antibes. In the end, he figured the only way to save Lamouret and his party of men was to take power in Paris. No direct attempt could free them from the town.

In a brief meeting with his subordinates, some of his officers voiced their desire to storm Antibes to rescue their fellow imprisoned soldiers. However, Napoléon simply told them that even if half of them were captured, it would not stop him from going to Paris. The matter was concluded. 

By 11:00 at night, Napoléon ordered everyone to march out on the road. They would head westward to the town of Cannes. He wished that Cambronne and his men had made better progress there than he did here. Suppose his general had accomplished his mission at Cannes. In that case, the army could march northward and take the mountain pass where it was likely safer to use while avoiding most of the royalist south. He was optimistic about gaining more significant support in going north. Heading west was out of the question. That would mean marching deeper into royalist territory, and the risk of armed opposition would be worse.

He was being driven inside his carriage at the head of his force while his followers trailed after him. Napoléon was pleased with the mobile gift his sister, Pauline, whom he had left behind on Elba. 

He casually glanced through the left and right windows. Drouot and Bertrand rode on his horses from either side of the coach. Napoléon immediately needed his subordinates for their next stop at Cannes, not knowing what might happen there for better or worse. As a necessity, he allowed them to temporarily use his mounts to relay any of his emergency orders if required rapidly.

To his right, General Drouot rode Taurus, his silvery grey mare – a gift from the Emperor of Russia, Alexander I, at the Congress of Erfurt in 1808. It had been a symbol of their fleeting friendship before it broke down, and war recommenced four years after that. He had ridden that mare during his invasion and retreat of Russia. ‘The White Charger,’ he had fondly dubbed her.

Through the left carriage window, Drouot was astride Wagram, his favorite gray male Arab horse. Napoléon reminisced when he rode him at the great Battle of Wagram in 1809, he was named after six years ago. He often fed the stallion sugar cubes and nicknamed him ‘Mon Cousin.’

Seeing his subordinates riding his steeds made him acutely aware of the severe shortage of horses. The fifty Gendarmes were his only cavalry, fully mounted. The rest of the other valuable members of his household had to walk on foot from the lack of horses. Even his Polish lancers, too, walked, carrying their saddles and lances by hand. There had been no more space to bring additional horses in the fleet when they parted from Elba. Even though the lancers’ mounts were left behind on the island, Napoléon did not see it as an issue.

_A temporary inconvenience._

His gold would buy all the good horses needed for the lancers and his household along the way northward—a simple solution to the problem. Until then, his lancers and other household members must wait.

[1] Napoleon brought 2 million francs from Elba.


	5. The Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the bottom of chapter 1, I uploaded an image of Napoleon's vaguely accurate route northward to Paris. I created this one many months ago. It was based on the original picture which could be found in this link below.  
> https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:France_location_map-Departements_1815.svg
> 
> Credit goes to the creator of the original map.

_March 1 st-2nd,1815_

****

General Cambronne stood off from the right side of a dirt road, waiting patiently outside Cannes’s northern outskirts for hours since the sun had disappeared. It was a dull experience for him. Mayor Garconne of Cannes had told him, reluctantly, of the imminent arrival of Honoré IV, who was the Duke of Valentinois, and Prince of the Principality of Monaco. He was expected to arrive this evening. Cambronne checked his pocket watch. It was at half-past nine. 

_He will be in for an unpleasant surprise when he meets me._

Mused Cambronne as he glanced to his left and right, checking for any oversights in the ambush that had been prepared close to where he stood. Two groups of Old Guard Chasseurs, each numbering fifteen strong, were laying prone face down on the ground at about thirty yards away from either side of the road. He was glad the Prince would arrive during the night. The dark blue greatcoat uniforms and black bearskin caps obscured his troops in the darkness to the point he could barely see them. He made sure his soldiers’ white crossbelts were hidden with the men laid face-down. Their bayonets were removed, so the shiny steel would not gleam off the rays of the moonlight and expose their concealed positions. It looked like to him his troops were well-hidden.

Cambronne heard the rumble of a horse-drawn vehicle approaching from the north and heading in his direction. He squinted his eyes to discern that it was a team of white horses pulling a black coach.

When the incoming carriage was fifty yards away, he called out loudly with his hand raised in a commanding gesture. “Halt, immediately!”

The carriage did not stop.

Cambronne removed his black bicorn hat, pulled out his tricolor cockade he had been concealing inside of it, and brandished the cloth in the air. The driver of the carriage slowed down the horses and stopped several meters away from Cambronne. At least twelve mounted Gendarmes trailed after the carriage. Cambronne cautiously moved past the white horses and sauntered to the carriage’s left side, where the door was located. He peered through the open square-shaped window, trying to make out whoever was inside. The seated passenger was concealed in darkness, making it impossible to determine whether the person was a man or woman.

Cambronne displayed his cockade in the window. “You see, we’re not of the same party.” He guessed it was the Prince, “I heard you had arrived. I have sent my messenger to headquarters to know how I am to act toward you. Meanwhile, you are my prisoner.” In anticipation of the Prince’s arrival, one of his Chasseurs had already been sent eastward on foot to find the Emperor to find out what to do with Honoré IV. Hopefully, the trooper made it to His Majesty by now.

The unknown passenger sat up straight and leaned forth toward the window. The moonlight revealed the face of a middle-aged man with combed brown hair, an oval face, sharp eyebrows, and brown eyes. Cambronne immediately recognized him. It was Honoré IV, who was once an equerry to the Emperor’s first wife, Josephine. The Prince was unexpectedly dressed in simple clothing, composed of a single-breasted brown jacket, loose-fitting black breeches, and a white cravat.

“I know of only one party, and it is that of His Majesty the King.” The Prince said to him. “Just what is your point exactly in displaying that illegal flag?”

Cambronne whistled, giving the signal. His men rushed toward the black carriage, with their muskets aimed at the Gendarmes and driver. When he returned his attention to Honoré, the Prince was alarmed, displaying fear. “Take their weapons and horses!” Cambronne ordered.

The entire Gendarmes escort was quickly disarmed of their swords and pistols, and they were forced to dismount from their horses. Cambronne instructed twelve of his Chasseurs to take the horses to the stables of Cannes.

A Chasseur Sergeant met up with Cambronne. “Mon Général, what should we do with the Gendarmes?”

Cambronne contemplated it for a short moment before he answered. “Send them back to where they came from, without their mounts, and take eleven men with you to watch them just in case if they try anything foolish. The moment they are out of your line of sight, you can return to Cannes. If they try to attack you…shoot them.” The idea of potentially killing fellow Frenchmen unsettled him.

“It will be done, Mon Général.” The soldier went away.

The Sergeant gathered the other eleven Chasseurs, forming them up a single firing line. The dismounted Gendarmes were told to march back north, and they did as they were told.

Cambronne then turned his attention back to the Prince. “If you cooperate, I will make this easy for you.”

“Fine, I will offer no resistance.” Honoré calmly replied.

“Good, now open the door, and move aside.”

Honoré opened the door and made room. Cambronne came and sat down on the black leather seat across from the Prince. One of the Chasseurs was directed to sit beside the coach-driver who was commanded to head to Cannes. His other five remaining Chasseurs were instructed to encircle the coach and accompany it during the trip.

“What do you want from me?” Honoré nervously inquired. 

“I do not want anything from you?”

“Then why are you abducting me? Is it for ransom? I can see that you and your men cling to the ways of the nonexistent Grande Armée.” Honoré observed. “Have you turned into brigands?”

“No, we are not bandits,” Cambronne answered. “I will hold you in my custody. Our Emperor will decide what to do with you when he arrives.” His sight adjusted to the darkness of the carriage and perceived that Prince Honoré appeared incredulous over what he disclosed to him.

“But, Bonaparte is in exile, unless he …oh, good God!” Honoré surmised the extraordinary situation. “He is here, isn’t he?”

"Yes, that was what I said.” Cambronne irritably repeated himself. “Did you think I was lying to you? He will be here soon enough sometime tonight.”

No more words were exchanged between him and Honoré. It remained that way until the carriage reached the town square located in the center of Cannes.

The coach halted at his command, and Cambronne stepped out. He instructed three Chasseurs to take the Prince and driver into the square’s local tavern and have them locked inside two separate rooms. The other two Guardsmen were ordered to take the coach to the stables. Afterward, they were told to guard the food supplies. The remaining Chasseur was commanded to fetch the Mayor and then, after that, remain on guard in the town’s square.

Cambronne also waited in the town square, and Mayor Garconne soon met up with him. He was a wrinkled older adult, wearing his powdered wig and his long-sleeved single-breasted grey tailcoat jacket. The white shoulder sash was worn over the coat. It signified his civil rank and loyalty to the King. The civil servant handed him a written report as he had been earlier ‘requested’ to produce. It showed the people had collected enough food and drink to feed three-thousand men. The wooden crates of bread, wine, and dried meat bags were piled up in the municipality’s square. Cambronne had understood why His Majesty wanted him to use an over-inflated number of his little army’s size. The exaggeration was meant to intimidate the civilians into compliance.

Cambronne inspected the stockpiles of crated provisions stacked up, four feet high. The accumulation of meat bags was smaller in quantity.

The nine Chasseurs who stayed in Cannes were still guarding the requisitioned supplies. That number now increased to fifteen.

Cambronne was pleased that he accomplished the task Napoléon had given to him. The rations and all the available carriages, along with the horses for the community’s vehicles, were requisitioned. He turned his attention to Garconne. “The Emperor will be here this evening. Would you care to come with me and greet him upon his arrival?”

The Mayor was silent.

“Well?” Cambronne impatiently pressed him to answer, and finally, the man did.

“As I see it, I’ve sworn allegiance to the King, and I’m not going to betray him.” Garconne firmly said.

“But you’d also sworn allegiance to the Emperor.”

“That’s true, and I stood by my oath until he abdicated. Now all I see in him is a man who wants to be France’s downfall. I repeat: my oath to the King is sacred. You can do what you like with me.”

Cambronne saw there was no way of persuading this man to change his attitude toward the Emperor. “Perhaps when the Emperor regains his throne, then would you change your mind and pledge your support for him?”

“Even if he does take the throne, I will not change how I feel towards that man. My own two sons died fighting in his wars, and I’m still grieving for them.” Garconne emotionally disclosed with a mixture of anger and sadness in his voice. “Now, unless you have anything else important to say to me, I would like to return to my home and rest.”

“So be it. I take it you will not greet the Emperor then?”

The Mayor slightly frowned, “I will not, and when he does arrive, I will have a few things on my mind I want to say to him. Have a good evening, Monsieur.” The civil servant turned around and ambled away.

Cambronne felt some measure of empathy for the man over the loss of his two boys. He focused on the report and reviewed it, just in case if he overlooked a small detail.

He was interrupted by a Chasseur who arrived and relayed that the twelve confiscated steeds were led into the stables as instructed and asked if there were more orders. He commanded the soldier to have the twelve Guardsmen who delivered the horses to safeguard the town square supplies with the other fifteen Chasseurs.

Cambronne realized the extra mounts would be useful in pulling the two cannons and ammunition carts from Elba.

_The Emperor would surely agree with this._

Later in the night, at ten o’clock, Cambronne selected two of his Chasseurs, Sergeants Arnaud and Henri. They accompanied him to the eastern entrance of Cannes – they were looking out for their comrades’ expected arrival in the main army. He checked the time on his watch, seeing it was now close to midnight. The main body had been expected to arrive during the evening to gather up the rations, but they were nowhere in sight.

Cambronne reasoned if something wrong had occurred, then His Majesty would have sent a messenger to him by now. Perhaps one was currently well on his way. He optimistically thought that maybe, the Elban troops were currently marching to Cannes. They were just running behind schedule for some minor reason. Whatever might have been the case, he had his orders to stay in Cannes. If the main body did not arrive sometime in the night, he would send out one of his men first thing in the morning to determine what happened.

“I need you two to stay out here and keep a watch out on the road.” He instructed the two Guardsmen. “You must immediately report to me at once if the Emperor and the main body have arrived. Look for me at the tavern in the town square where I will be staying there for the night. It is the same one where the Prince is staying in.”

“Yes, Mon Général.”

“Of course, Mon Général.”

Cambronne then went back into Cannes, seeking to finally eat a well-deserved meal and then relax on a bed for the rest of the night. He entered the square and strode to the tavern where he had the Prince imprisoned. Upon entering, Cambronne was pleasantly greeted by a comely petite blonde-haired woman who was garbed in a white apron over a maroon dress.

“Good evening, Monsieur.”

“Good evening to you, Madame,” Cambronne replied restively while quickly noticing her gold ring, presumably married. He looked around and beheld a dozen of his soldiers eating and drinking with each other at their tables. Two other young women were working here catering to the troops. Cambronne repressed his soldierly instinct to bellow at his men for casually lounging around. But, he had the heart to let it go since they technically had not done anything wrong. Cambronne spotted the Sergeant whom he had ordered to force the Gendarmes to march north on foot.

“Soldiers!” Cambronne brusquely exclaimed. The chatting among the gathered Chasseurs ceased when they gave him their attention. “When you’re done with your meals, relieve the twenty-five men guarding the rations so that they may have a turn to rest.”

“It will be done, Mon Général.” The Sergeant spoke on behalf of the troops.

Cambronne turned to the blonde woman before him. “Are you the owner of the tavern?”

“My husband oversees this place. He is away now, so I am in charge.”

“Are there any rooms available? I want to stay for the night.”

“Yes, there are several rooms left.” She answered, “Would you like to be served a hot meal with ale or wine?”

“Do you serve soup?”

“Yes. In various kinds.”

“Then a bowl of whatever soup is available, along with bread and ale, will do just fine.”

She held out her hand, expecting payment. “It will cost you at least forty centimes for a room along with the meal and drink.”

Cambronne untied the purse from his belt and brought out four bronze décimes, each worth ten centimes. She gratefully accepted the money and inquired. “Is it true that _he_ is coming to Cannes?”

“Yes, it is very true. The Emperor should be here in just a few hours.”

“When you see him again, please tell the Emperor for me that even here in the southernmost parts of the country, there are still those who love him.”

“I will,” Cambronne lied. It was a useless gesture on his part, but it was done out of politeness. “As much as I would like to continue this conversation, I need to rest my eyes, but not before I eat my supper.”

“Oh, of course, it was rude of me to keep you waiting.” She gestured for him to come along with the wave of her hand. “Please follow me, Monsieur.”

Cambronne followed her upstairs and then down the wooden hallway until they reached the last door at the end of the corridor on the left-hand side. She took out from the front pocket of her white apron a set of iron keys and unlocked the door.

“I will send in one of my girls to fetch your meal. It will be ready very soon.”

“Thank you.” Cambronne went into the room. There was a lavatory closet in the wall with a closed door, a window with wooden shutters, a small round dining table with a simple chair, and most importantly, a bed situated in the corner, with one pillow and a brown blanket. He sat down comfortably on the soft mattress. The door was closed by the woman. It felt nice for him to sit on a bed after a very long day of performing his soldierly duties. But he knew better than to get too comfortable during this uncertain episode. Cambronne lay down on the bed and closed his eyes while being careful not to doze off.

Sometime later, someone knocked on the door. “You may enter.” He got up from the bed, alert.

The door opened, and one of the two women he saw serving his men came inside. The shoulder-length brown-haired girl was arrayed in a white short-sleeved chemise and black ankle-length skirt. She brought in his long-awaited hot meal on a wooden serving tray and placed it on a small table beside the bed. Cambronne’s stomach hungrily growled when his nose inhaled the delicious aroma of cooked food.

“Is there anything I can do for you, Monsieur?”

“No, that will be all for tonight, thank you.”

She left the room and closed the door on her way out.

Cambronne sat down at the table and ate his supper. Upon finishing the meal, he assessed the current situation with more clarity – and he concluded that the only thing left for him to do now was to simply get some necessary sleep. Hopefully, he earnestly thought, that His Majesty was merely delayed temporarily in his overdue arrival.


	6. Inland

_March 2 nd,1815_

Napoléon patiently waited for his guest to arrive while seated on his wooden log in front of a large bonfire that both warmed him and served as a beacon just off the beach a few miles to the east of Cannes. He was pleased about the recent news brought in by one of Cambronne’s Chasseurs from Cannes regarding the apprehension of the Prince Honoré by the General’s detachment. Napoléon had sent one of his Gendarmes to order Cambronne to have the Prince escorted to his position at the beacon. The rider returned only twenty minutes ago. He checked his pocket watch, and it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. The device was returned to its grey pocket.

A few minutes later, he heard the rumble of a carriage approaching, and out of the dark, appearing in the bonfire’s illumination, it came to a halt. The two Chasseurs escorting the coach descended from it, then stood at attention and saluted. Napoléon knew both soldiers as Arnaud and Henri, among the hundreds of the Old Guard he was familiar with by their names.

A well-dressed man in a brown jacket, black breeches, knee-high stockings, and silver-buckled black shoes came down from the carriage. It was indeed him, the Prince who had been an equerry to his wife, Josephine. When he was attached to the imperial family, naturally, Napoléon had known him for many years. He became good friends with him. He wondered after having spent almost a year in abdication if Honoré still retained their sense of friendship.

“I’m glad you have come,” Napoléon warmly said to the fifty-seven-year-old Prince of Monaco. “I welcome you, my good friend.” Honoré’s appearance had not changed in the slightest. His combed brown hair was the same. He was still frail-looking due to his history of being imprisoned in the revolution's chaotic years. It had taken a toll on his health, and nevertheless, unfortunately, persisted to his day. The sight of the Prince in his weakened state only invited Napoléon’s sympathy.

Prince Honoré did not immediately respond to his welcome. When he found his voice, he nervously stuttered his greeting while being naturally mild-mannered. “Sire…it is, delightful to…s-see you again.”

“Come, have a seat.” Napoléon offered, as he invited the Prince to sit on a nearby adjacent log. “It is quite cold outside at this time of night. There are many things I want to discuss with you.”

Honoré acted a little edgy. He sat down beside him. Napoléon was a bit disappointed the Prince was behaving very nervously in his presence. He reasoned it was because of his sudden arrival into France and not out of fear. At least, that was what he hoped to be the case.

“There can only be one reason why you’re here.” Honoré calmly spoke. “You probably want to retake the throne and the nation along with it.”

"Yes, that is why I am here with my army behind me,” Napoléon casually admitted.

“If I may be so bold as to say this…I strongly doubt the success of your enterprise to regain France. The odds are impossibly stacked up against you.”

Honoré looked surprised when Napoléon defiantly smiled. “Well, that is, if the King is even lucky enough to gather up any of his loyal supporters against me, then you might be correct in your judgment. My force of twelve-hundred men I brought with me is tiny, but my real army lies over there…in the heartland of this nation.” Napoléon vaguely pointed north before putting his hand down on his lap. “They will surely rally to my side when they see me my face again.”

The Prince diverted his attention from Napoléon and watched the fire's yellow dancing flames before them.

“Where were you coming from?” Napoléon questioned.

“I came from Paris, sire.”

“Where were you heading off to exactly?”

“I was going home to my Principality of Monaco that had at last recently been restored to me.” The Prince smiled a little to himself.

Napoléon understood his reaction. He knew that Monaco had been confiscated from Honoré’s family during the revolution's violent years. “Tell me, what is the general attitude like in Paris?” he inquired.

“The people there are discontent. I have heard only a handful of them ever said a positive thing about the King while you were gone. The situation in France is still deteriorating against the Bourbons. I believe that at the present rate things are going right now, that old man on the throne will very possibly share the fate of his late brother twenty years ago.”

Napoléon was quite pleased with the news. “What about the rest of the country? Do they generally feel the same about the King?”

Honoré switched his focus from the fire to Napoléon. “Beyond the borders of southern France, you’ll find that nearly everyone there will happily follow you once more.” 

Napoléon smiled. “Are you coming with us?”

“Sire, I’m going home to Monaco.”

“And I too will go home, and I will return to the Palais des Tuileries.”

Napoléon talked with Honoré for a little while longer. Upon finishing the conversation, the bonfire was doused. He selected two Gendarmes to ensure that Honoré was detained on the spot for an hour for security purposes before being allowed to continue to Monaco. 

Napoléon had the Chasseurs Arnaud and Henri ride with him in his coach, needing them to take him to Cambronne with a new assignment he had in mind for the General. The main force trailed after his carriage in a night march to Cannes.

Arnaud cleared his throat. “Sire, may I speak with Your Majesty about something?”

Napoléon nodded.

“Sergent Henri and I had not only been specifically chosen by Général Cambronne to escort the Prince to Your Majesty. He wanted us to relay a message to you, sire.”

“What is it?”

“Knowing that Your Majesty was perfectly safe and only delayed in arriving at Cannes, Général Cambronne said that if you required any more services from him, then he will be found asleep at a tavern in the town’s square.”

“I see, now. Now that it was brought up, I will need him again. I need you two to guide me to that tavern when we get there.”

“Yes, sire.” Arnaud said, and Henri only nodded.

When they arrived in the torch-lit town square, Napoléon was pleased to see Cambronne’s efforts in gathering provisions that had been stacked in a row of crates and a pile of stuffed sacks. Two dozen Guardsmen had been posted all around the square.

Napoléon ordered the carriage to stop, and it halted on the cobbled street. General Drouot – his loyal commander, riding alongside the carriage was given orders to have the troops and civilian staff fall-out of the march and rest for the night. Napoléon was greeted by a small cheering crowd of a dozen people that had gathered to see him. Many cried out in his honor, _Vive L’Empereur!_

He left the coach with his two Guardsmen and spotted a wrinkled man with a white wig who gently pushed his way through the crowd and moved up to the front in plain view. Napoléon could tell by the white shoulder sash that the man in his presence was the town's Mayor. The civil servant approached him non-aggressively until he was physically stopped by Arnaud and Henri, with their muskets crossed, barring the way. “You may let him through,” Napoléon permitted. The two Chasseurs lowered their weapons and allowed the Mayor to pass. The Mayor welcomed Napoléon with a noticeable cold formality.

“My men and I will not stay here for long. I thank you for coming out to greet me.”

The Mayor frowned at him and tensely muttered, “I will be honest with you, sire. We have just begun to be happy and tranquil, and here you come upsetting everything.” His face changed. He seemed sad and angry simultaneously. “Two of my sons died in Spain because of you. I could never forgive you for robbing me of my boys.”

Several people in the crowd gasped at the way their Mayor spoke to him. Arnaud and Henri moved forward on their own against the man. Napoléon immediately signaled them to stop in their tracks. Those harsh words did not anger him. He felt a little hurt and troubled.

“I am sorry you feel that way. I can only offer you my deepest condolences for your tragic loss.”

“I don’t need your sympathies.” The Mayor harshly rejected. “I want you out of this town. Many of the people I know here suffered enormously because of you. They have all lost a loved one in your wars. At least our new King has not plunged us all into another conflict. We have all enjoyed nearly a year of peace, and now that you’re here again, we all may as well just start to dig our graves.” When the Mayor finished his say, he boldly turned about and stormed out of Napoléon’s sight.

Arnaud spoke up. “Mon Empereur, should we-”

“Just take me to the tavern, now,” Napoléon ordered the two Chasseurs. He followed Arnaud, who took the lead. General Bertrand accompanied them.

Napoléon was led to a two-storied brown wooden inn with a white stone chimney in the town square, but no smoke came out of it. Arnaud tried to enter when the building’s door was reached but was annoyed that the front door was locked. He knocked hard on it until a female voice was heard from inside the tavern. “God damn you! We are closed for the night! Come back at seven in the morning!” He kept on pounding until a seething blonde-haired woman opened the door. She was attired in a long red robe in the doorway and same-colored slippers.

Henri calmly apologized. “Our Emperor urgently needs to speak with Général Cambronne right now. Is he here?”

"He is here in this town, right now?” The woman’s tone immediately changed into one of excitement.

Napoléon stepped into her view from the side of the open doorway and removed his hat. “Bonjour, Madame. My apologies for disturbing you. May I see my General even at this late hour?”

The blonde woman was quite stunned in seeing him in person. At first, she fumbled for words, but she quickly got ahold of her tongue and spoke more coherently. “Ah, yes, yes,…please-uh-come inside.” Napoléon and his small entourage entered with glee – it was the first warm room on land they could relax inside since leaving Elba.

“Would you care for something to eat or drink, sire?” She offered.

Napoléon lightly shook his head and smiled. “That will not be necessary, but thank you for the kind offer. Where exactly is my General, Pierre Cambronne? I was told he is supposed to be here.”

“Ah, yes. I think I know the one. Your General is sleeping in one of the rooms upstairs. He never told me his name, but he did wear a highly fancy uniform.”

“Kindly inform him that I have arrived?”

“Of course, sire.”

The tavern woman moved from the doorway, turned around, and just when she was about to head upstairs, Napoléon called out to her again. “You never told me your name, Madame.”

“My name is Annette Rouge, sire.” She answered.

“It is a good name.” He remarked.

“Thank you.” Annette went up the stairs and out of sight.

Napoléon took a seat at the nearest empty rectangular table. Moments later, a very pleased-looking General Cambronne strode down the stairs, followed by Annette, who was requested to leave them alone. Napoléon spoke to the woman. “Madame Rouge, your services are no longer needed here, but before you go, here, take this.” He reached into the right pocket of his grey coat, took out his privy purse inside, and gave her twenty-franc gold coin. 

“I humbly thank you, Your Majesty.” Annette graciously accepted the payment and then departed the room.

Napoléon turned to the General, who still had heavy bloodshot eyes. “Please, take a seat, Général Cambronne.”

Cambronne sat down as Napoléon checked the time of his watch. It was a quarter after three in the morning. 

“Tell me, in those boxes and bags I saw earlier, are those the rations I needed from this town?” Napoléon quizzed.

“Yes, sire. They had been piled up in the town square. They are ready to be distributed among the soldiers.”

“What about the carriages and horses? How many were you able to get your hands on? I did not see any.” Napoléon inquired with more concern.

“The Mayor was ‘convinced’ to provide us with at least twelve carriages. Each one can carry four passengers. They were put together next to the main stables quarters since there was not enough room left in the town square due to all the provisions we stockpiled.” Cambronne explained, and he continued. “When we ambushed the Prince and his escort, my men had also confiscated twelve extra horses from the dozen Gendarmes, and they are in the stables. I figured they might be useful in outfitting the pair of guns and wagons we’ve brought ashore, sire.”

Napoléon was satisfied with the results. The number of coaches was sufficient to transport his civilian staff along with his gold and personal baggage. He switched to his other subordinate present in the room. “Général Bertrand, you may start distributing the rations to the men. Then get one of Cambronne’s Chasseurs to guide you to where those dozen horses are located and have them outfit the cannons and carts. I also want you to instruct Monsieur Peyrusse to replace the mules and pack the gold and baggage onto the carriages. All the civilian staff shall be conveyed by the vehicles.”

“Understood, sire.” Bertrand took his leave from the tavern.

Napoléon turned to Cambronne. “And what did you do with the Gendarmes after you took away their horses?”

“I made them walk straight back into the opposite direction, sire. If they do come across any of the local authorities in the area while on their way, they will inform them that the Prince was taken away by armed brigands in imperial uniforms. They did not know that you are here on French soil.”

Napoléon smirked. “Good, good. You have done very well this night. The new horses you took will be quite useful for my two cannons and the wagons. The number of rations you requisitioned should sustain this army for the next few days.”

Cambronne nodded.

“I need you to do something essential for me. According to my map, there is a road, which leads up into the north, and the town of Grasse is only several leagues away from here. I need you to go there and requisition more rations than we need for our soldiers. We need to make the people of Grasse think my force is much bigger than it is, as we did here. Do you understand my instructions?”

“Yes, sire.” Cambronne nodded. He suddenly appeared uneasy. “When should I leave?”

“Tonight!” Napoléon answered. “You will take along some of my Polish lancers and form them up as your advance guard. Your Chasseur detachment will stay and rest until the main force is ready to leave Cannes.”

“I understand, sire.” Cambronne said.

“It looks like to me you are worried about something.” Napoléon pointed out. “If so, what is it?”

“Respectfully, I think there is one problem.”

“Tell me.”

“The dozen Gendarme I mentioned. They were forced to go northward. I fear they might have already come across local authorities and told them about what happened to the Prince. There could be local regular troops in the area around Grasse, and for all I know, they might be on their way to Cannes as we speak.”

“I see.” Napoléon calmly said. It was potentially a problem going in that direction.

“Sire, do you think we should instead march westward to throw off any pursuing forces coming from the north?”

“No. It is not safe going west. The royalists of Cannes would inform any pursuing troops of our departure in that direction. We would be heading deeper into Bourbon territory and likely bump into hostile soldiers. We have to go north. I intend to take the mountain pass there that will lead us to Digne. While I stayed in Elba, my informant from Grenoble had reported to me that it was a relatively safe path.”

“I understand, sire.”

Napoléon stood up from his chair. “I will go and find the commander of the Polish squadron, tell him to give you at least forty of his lancers. When you have the men, leave for Grasse. We will follow you later on.”

“Yes, sire.” Cambronne then hustled off to set upon his new mission. Napoléon came out in turn. Arnaud and Henri, standing guard next to the doorway, were dismissed and told to collect their rations.

Napoléon inspected the activity in the town square. The soldiers and civilian staff stood in multiple lines, receiving from those assigned to distribute their shares of food and beverages from the collection of crates and bags. Napoléon quickly spotted the thick-mustached, brown wavy-haired commander of his Imperial Guard Polish lancers, whose name he could never pronounce correctly and simply addressed him by his rank.[1] He ordered the Polish Major to provide General Cambronne with a group of forty of his Poles.

When Cambronne’s new advance guard was formed, they departed from the northern entrance of Cannes. They took the north road. Napoléon watched as Cambronne set off with his advance guard, confident in their success. He believed they could repeat their accomplishment at Grasse just as they had done in Cannes.

[1]Chef d’escadron Paweł Jerzmanowski.


	7. Advance Guard

_March 2 nd,1815_

Cambronne knew he was getting closer to the town of Grasse after many hours of walking along the route. A road sign indicated that Grasse was only a mile away. He still felt drowsy from having slept only a handful of hours before he departed for his task. However, his steely soldierly discipline motivated him to fulfill his obligations to the Emperor. His little human needs were of secondary importance compared to regaining France for His Majesty. Being forty-four years old, Cambronne was glad that half of his life was spent enduring the hardships of warfare to the point it had toughened his warrior-like resolve and perseverance in the face of adversities. Sleepiness was the very least of his concerns. It was practically treated as a luxury when he deemed it necessary, and today was no different. He checked the time on his pocket watch, and it was a little after seven in the morning. The rays of the rising sun had begun breaking out into the sky.

The road was in terrible condition. It had remained that way for hours not long after he exited from Cannes. Nothing changed. There were multiple cracks in the stone pavement and countless holes, many as big as a human foot. It appeared like nobody had bothered to fix these problems, much to his steep disapproval. The degraded road would undoubtedly become an issue for His Majesty’s loaded vehicles. The terrain was rugged and broken. The widespread grassy fields were dotted by numerous hills, hillocks, mounds of various sizes, shrubs, bushes, and too many groupings of trees seen nearby. He could not make out any farther in the distance as the darkness of night was still quite strong at this time of the morning. Ever since Cambronne had accidentally gotten his foot temporarily trapped in one of those large holes in the road an hour ago, he instead had been pacing along the highway's left-handed side. Once was enough. He had quickly learned his lesson. Making the same mistake twice was potentially dangerous, not wanting to step into any of those numerous pits and possibly break his foot.

Cambronne glanced over his shoulder. The Poles had been ordered to follow him in the same manner in single-file. Not one treaded out of line, and hence, zero incidents. It must be kept that way. He paused the march and allowed his Poles a breather. Many were already fatigued from carrying their saddles and lances. It was the fourth time they stopped to take a break, for that reason alone. Cambronne sympathized with the Poles. Out of all the Emperor’s soldiers, they carried the heaviest load of them and badly needed horses. They rested for fifteen minutes before they resumed their northward advance. Cambronne was worried over possibly confronting an armed force of royalists the further north he ventured. So far, his vanguard had not encountered any troops loyal to the king.

_Had those released Gendarmes gone in a different direction and not to Grasse?_

It was wishful thinking at best, and it could be true. In the end, only luck might help him for the better. Cambronne prayed, in hindsight, he had not doomed the Emperor’s goal in retaking France so soon after they landed. He would never forgive himself if those ambushed escort Gendarmes he had released earlier had raised the alarm, and a sizeable nearby force was already dispatched to stop the Emperor.

After they followed the road that went over some ground that gradually sloped upward, Cambronne and his vanguard arrived at the summit. They reached the southern outskirts of the town of Grasse. The sight was impressive from where Cambronne stood a hundred yards away. The elevated view enabled him to witness the entirety of Grasse. It was much larger than Cannes, which had several hundred buildings. Grasse was much grander, numbering easily in the thousands of them.

The municipality seemed wealthy. Six outlying distant chateaus and mansions were spotted just beyond Grasse in the north and east. Oddly, none of these extravagant dwellings were seen along his way north. Cambronne estimated that quite a few of the households and other structures were three stories tall or bigger. Their sloped, triangular-shaped rooftops had different colored shingles that varied from one building to the next, but most were not unique. The three most common colors were black, brown of various shades, and grey. Hundreds of stone and red-bricked chimneys emitted columns of black smoke.

Cambronne inhaled a lovely aroma in the air. It was sweet, like something fresh out of a bakery. But it was not food. The smell was far too pleasant, like flowers. Then it hit him. He remembered now that Grasse was quite renowned throughout France and even beyond for its production of perfume.

Cambronne faintly caught some commotion from the town's southern edge at a grey cobbled street entrance. Within mere minutes, a civilian crowd assembled up a little distance away before Grasse on flat ground between him and the municipality. It became clear to him that his party had been spotted.

_Did they come on out to greet us?_

Considering he was still deep in southern France, it was unlikely. Cambronne told his Poles to stay behind. He boldly approached Grasse alone and confidently strode toward the gathered crowd.

There were plenty of men, both young and old, who sported colorful sartorial. They were clothed in jackets, waistcoats, knee-length culottes, tricorn hats, and most commonly, white powdered wigs. Their black and brown low-heeled shoes bore buckles, typically either in silver or bronze.

Like peacocks, a multitude of ladies displayed low-necked petticoats, redingotes, caracos, etc.…Their hair was styled like feathery plumes, very much like those posh noblewomen who took that fashion to the extreme from what Cambronne remembered from caricatures.

Most of the civilians were arrayed like they were still living in the time before the revolution. Cambronne sneered at the haughty older style of dress. 

He halted several meters away from the congregated civilian mass. “I am Général de Brigade Pierre Cambronne.” He introduced himself. “Where is Le Maire of Cannes?”

A well-dressed man in a black single-breasted coat and white breeches stepped out of the crowd by a couple of feet toward Cambronne. He seemed somewhere in his forties, though it was hard to tell due to his face’s skeletal appearance, in the form of sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. He bore a white shoulder sash, and a short-powdered wig rested atop his head, hiding his hair color. His presence gave Cambronne his answer. “What is your business here, Monsieur?” The Mayor inquired curiously.

“I demand of you to immediately collect at least four-thousand rations in meat and bread!” Cambronne dictated in his loud commanding voice, partially done to intimidate the people.

The Mayor’s attitude shifted to hostility. “Who do you think you are to make any demands upon us?”

Instead of answering the question, Cambronne shot back with his own, “To whom am I speaking, Monsieur?”

The public servant gave the impression of being irritated by rolling his eyes. “Any fool with half of a brain can tell that I am Le Maire of Grasse.”

Cambronne ignored the insolent remark, “I was asking who you are, Monsieur le Maire.”

The Mayor proudly raised his chin. “I am known here as the Marquis de Gourdon, and tell me this, why should we comply with your demand?”

“I demand them in the name of His Imperial Majesty Emperor Napoléon Bonaparte, who will arrive here very soon.” Cambronne disclosed.

Gourdon and most of the civilians displayed disbelief and shock at the name. “We have our own sovereign and we love him.” The Mayor defiantly stated, trying to look brave.

Cambronne quickly grew annoyed. He felt an urge to run up and punch the bugger in the stomach, but his discipline calmed him down. “Monsieur le Maire, I am not here to discuss politics with you, but to insist on getting some rations, seeing as how my column will be here at any moment.” He roughly replied. “I will be back soon, and when I do, I will expect you to comply with my demands.

The Mayor seemed scared, as did many of the civilians. Cambronne demanded that anybody guide him to a stable, and the Mayor immediately selected a person from the crowd. He was taken into Grasse by a cropped brown-haired teenage boy, where Cambronne borrowed a horse from the local stable. The owner was against it but was silenced when Cambronne threateningly touched his sheathed saber’s grip. He rode back to where the Polish lancers were gathered and told them to stay until the main body arrived.

He rode south at the canter.

_His Majesty should be very close behind_.

Cambronne soon heard the distinct rumbling of over two-thousand marching shoes on the ground. He rode to the advancing column’s head, where the Emperor was expectedly leading in his carriage. On horseback, Bertrand and Drouot were accompanying His Majesty’s vehicle. Cambronne pulled up and trotted beside the coach’s left window facing west, gaining his sovereign’s attention.

The Emperor stuck his head out of the square-shaped opening. “Well, what is your report, Général Cambronne?”

“I am confident Grasse will receive you…though with some reluctance. I have ordered them to start collecting the number of rations for four-thousand.”

“Good, now return and keep a watch on Grasse until I arrive.” Napoléon comfortably laid back in his leather cushioned seat of his carriage as Cambronne galloped northward.


	8. Mountain Passage

_March 2 nd,1815_

From his heavily rumbling coach, Napoléon looked out from it with dismay at the mountain road's deteriorated state that began his journey beyond Cannes. The northern Grasse-Digne highway had already been constructed during his time as France's First Consul.

  
  
_It should help me avoid the rest of the Alpes-Maritimes and any local royalist forces._

He checked his watch. It was a quarter past nine in the morning. Napoléon relaxed, closed his eyes, and took a nap, doing his best to ignore his carriage's trembling. Napoléon woke with a start when his driver loudly announced their arrival outside of Grasse. He turned to Bertrand, who was riding beside the vehicle, and requested he summon Cambronne before ordering his coachman to take the carriage off the road. Napoléon stepped outside the coach as his valet opened the carriage door. Cambronne came up to him after Bertrand successfully sought him out, this time on foot without his brown horse anywhere in sight. 

  
"Sire, the civilians of Grasse have gathered the supplies we need." The General satisfactorily reported. 

  
Napoléon nodded approvingly. "That's excellent." 

"May I find a place for you to stay in Grasse?" Cambronne enquired. "Or are we leaving the town very soon, sire?"

  
Napoléon shook his head. "Right now, we will wait for the rest of the column to catch up with us. They will move off the road as they arrive. When everyone is present, I will enter the municipality first with your advance guard escorting my coach. Then the rest of the troops can come in next to collect their rations. I will leave for that elevated piece of ground overlooking Grasse, over there." 

  
Cambronne turned to where Napoléon pointed to an elevated grassy mound that overlooked the town about fifty yards to Grasse's east. 

  
"The column can disperse upon entering Grasse and rest until noon before we will leave."

  
"I understand, sire." 

  
"Good. You may leave me." 

  
Cambronne joined up with his vanguard and gave them their new orders. The forty dismounted lancers flanked his coach and were ready to march alongside it. Napoléon summoned Drouot and instructed the General to relay his instructions to the rest of his household and the civilian staff using the carriages. They were to follow him into Grasse before heading to the elevated terrain east of the municipality. 

  
He gazed at the Elban troops arriving one section at a time, each filed off to the right of the highway before they organized into multiple parallel columns facing northward. His twelve coaches came from the rear and halted. They remained parked in the Elban column's end on the road as instructed, ready to trail after him. The entire Elban force was assembled by Cambronne and was poised to enter Grasse. Figuring it was now time, his coachman was given instructions, and Napoléon returned to the carriage. It ventured forward into Grasse first, with the dismounted Poles protectively marching alongside the vehicle, passing by the town's civilians through the cobbled streets. It became apparent his coach, guarded by forty Poles, quickly drew much attention. People stopped what they were doing and gathered to watch the incoming entourage. Some individuals publicly pointed out his presence to everyone present when he was seen.

One man boldly uttered, "It's him. It's Bonaparte!" It was not spoken out of joy but a mixture of loathing and distress. Napoléon easily interpreted that the civilians appeared to be neither hostile nor aggressive as they passively 'welcomed' him with silence alone.

  
The buildings of Grasse gave way to the rolling countryside as he passed through the municipality. His coach then climbed up a gentle slope before reaching the designated high ground, where it stopped. His household and civilian staff joined him there. Generals Drouot and Bertrand were directed to assist in organizing the distribution of rations. The forty Poles were permitted to obtain their sustenance, feeling sure that nobody in Grasse would try to attack him with his army present. Half of his domestic and civilian retainers were allowed to get their share of the requisitioned food. The remainder stayed behind to guard the baggage and gold while waiting for their turn to get their rations. 

  
For lunch, a cooked chicken was delivered to him from a local hotel's proprietor. The meal was paid for with a twenty-franc gold piece, the smallest valued coin in his treasury. The owner returned and gave back Napoléon's change of nineteen francs and sixty-five centimes, broken down into smaller denominations of silver and bronze coins, all stored in his drawstring purse. He anticipated he would require his change for future purchases that did not need gold. 

  
After he finished the meal in his carriage, General Cambronne presented him with two men. The first gentleman had a thin mustache and combed short brown hair. The clothing consisted of a buttoned-up brown coat, tan trousers, and black boots. The second fellow was attired in a dark blue closed overcoat, white breeches, and black buckled shoes. In contrast to the former, the latter was clean-shaven and had a shaggy red coiffure. The first fellow introduced himself as Benoit, and the other was Francis. 

  
"Sire, I came across and casually had spoken with these two fellows about many things to pass the time before we depart. They revealed themselves as ardent admirers of Your Majesty. Naturally, I felt comfortable enough to reveal to them we would take the constructed highway to Digne. They gave me some bad news about the state of the passage. I bring them here for you to know what they disclosed to me." Cambronne disappointedly explained. 

  
"So, what do you need to tell me, Messieurs?" Napoléon apprehensively questioned. 

  
Benoit elaborated on what the problem was. Napoléon intensely disliked what was revealed regarding the mountain road he had planned to take. "So, you are telling me the route is not viable for wheeled traffic at all, is that it?

  
"I'm afraid so, sire?' Francis unhappily confirmed. "For many years, my colleague and I have traversed the path through the mountains numerous times. As merchants, we did business with all the villages and towns from here to Digne. We were planning to leave tomorrow for that said city. Strictly going northwest from here, the traditional roaded path to your destination is little more than a crude mountain track. It is crumbling at specific points. There are the occasional torrents of waterways along the way. All need to be taken into consideration. The route will turn out to be wide enough only for your soldiers to move in by single file only. However, there is good news. You can still bring your mules or horses, to carry whatever portable baggage you have brought along."

  
"I see." Napoléon was awash with frustration but masked it from plain sight. "Thank you two for providing me with this crucial information. You have served me very well."  
The two merchants departed; each rewarded some francs by him for their time. 

  
Napoléon contemplated the information the two merchants had given to him. It was a disaster. It had been thirteen years since he had ordered the Grasse-Digne mountain road construction to make it suitable for wheeled traffic. Now to his disgust, he learned this decree had never been carried out. 

_How could this have happened?_

His assumption that the path had been completed was shattered to pieces. With his initial plan now swept off the table, he had to adapt swiftly. He remembered from the map of France he studied hours ago before he left Cannes the name of the closest village to Grasse: Saint-Vallier-de-Thiey. It would have to do for him. No matter what, he needed to move northwest, regardless of the obstacles. Going east or west would take too much time and invite more trouble from royalist-siding populations and soldiers.

Napoléon was acutely aware he would be forced to abandon anything which could not be taken through the mountains. The pair of cannons had to be abandoned, but it would hardly be a loss to him. They were already useless. The twelve horse carriages he wanted to utilize for the particular purpose of moving through the highlands were rendered virtually worthless. They, too, would have to be left behind. Leaving the coach Pauline had gifted to him in Elba was the hardest of all to swallow. In the end, he knew it was a necessary sacrifice for him to make. 

  
  
_Luxurious goods will not help me get to Paris in time._

Speed was of the utmost importance now more than ever. He must reach Grenoble quickly before the Bourbons could mobilize any of their loyal forces against him. It was Napoléon's best bet. According to his informant who lived there, he had learned that the city's population was reportedly sympathetic to him among the sea of information provided to him regarding France's situation. Also, Grenoble possessed an excellent garrison, an arsenal, and other useful assets to help strengthen his army. Such reasons had convinced him that it was his first significant objective to obtain. The Grasse-Digne highway was meant to be used as a speedy pathway to Grenoble. 

_Taking the city would, without doubt, be pivotal to my success._

However, the recent incident of Antibes haunted Napoléon. He had believed the local soldiers there would defect, but they did not. Would Grenoble end up as a failure for him in the same way? That possibility almost discouraged him, but he must go through. Turning back was impossible now. With noon approaching, Napoléon left his carriage and set to work. He issued a series of orders carried out by his household and generals. He oversaw everything in Grasse, making sure all his requirements were met. The town yielded a further gain of twenty mules and muleteers. His baggage and the two million worth in gold were packed into wooden crates and securely strapped with rope onto the animals' backs. He thought it was prudent to spread the gold among many of the animals rather than just a few, lest if something happened to them while traveling through the high mountainous passes, the treasury's losses would be minimal. 

  
A total of sixty-three horses from the thirteen carriages, the ammunition and weapon wagons, a pair of cannons, and his three-horsed vehicle were collected and distributed first to his household members, and lastly, the Polish lancers. Only Ali was exempted, given the responsibility of looking after his horses, Wagram and Taurus, and allowed to ride the former for the purpose at hand. Everything that could not be taken would just be discarded in Grasse for the people there to do with them as they saw fit. 

  
He instructed Guillaume Peyrusse, his treasurer, that from now on, at every stop in a village, town, and city along the way, he would buy all the local horses in good condition to fully outfit his Polish lancers. Peyrusse later reported that he purchased eight more good steeds from the Grasse stables. The Polish cavalry commander gleefully relayed to Napoléon that around half of the Poles were given mounts in one day. 

  
Cambronne came by and stated that the army had enough rations to sustain itself for a few days, in combination with the food that had been previously requisitioned at Cannes. Napoléon knew there was already more than enough rations to make it to his next destination. There was no need to resupply. His troops could only carry so many edibles with them, and they must travel lightly. It was midday with the sun as its highest in the clear cold blue sky, when Napoléon's reorganized troops marched away from Grasse towards the next village, with the Elban soldiers in the lead. A large crowd of people in the northern outskirts of the township gazed silently upon the departing column. When suddenly some civilians cried out the words of Vive L'Empereur! Napoléon smiled and felt a little heartened in hearing those words shouted in his honor. With any luck, millions of Frenchmen would soon chant the same.

  
The column marched into the impressively high mountain range that dominated the north and east. The terrain was composed of heavily forested mounds and was easily traversable on foot for the time being. The wooden signs along the way informed him they were getting closer to the village. 

  
Napoléon ordered a halt for resting a few times during the energy-sapping uphill march. He came across a wide natural passage between a grey mountain and a low leveled wooded hammock. It had been two hours since he had left Grasse, when finally, by half-past two, his army arrived in the small community of Saint-Vallier-de-Thiey. The settlement was situated on even ground flanked by tall forested ridges to the east and thick woods to the west. 

  
The hamlet possessed only several dozen buildings and houses of relatively low quality compared to Grasse's splendor. All of its homes were simply two-story and single-level dwellings in many shades of brown wood. Many of the civilians fearfully scampered back into their places the moment they saw him. The few that remained out in the open appeared startled and alarmed by his presence. He spotted a few people peeking at him from behind the slightly opened door of a nearby two-story-high wooden home with a straw rooftop. 

  
Napoléon was at least relieved he was not staring back at any aimed muskets from the building. He thought it was a pity that the locals here were deeply uncomfortable with his presence. His army rested at the settlement. Napoléon felt pleasant in loosening up his joints when he sat down on a public circular stone bench around a tall, straight tree located in the village's center. He took out his map of France from his pocket and laid it out on his lap. He found the name of Saint-Villier-de-Thiey. He decided upon his next destination, located northwest in the mountain range itself. He anticipated it would only get more challenging from this point onward. 

  
A balding, white-bearded portly man who was attired in a long brown apron was allowed to approach Napoléon, carrying a wooden tray of refreshments. 

  
"Sire, would you care to drink some of this wine?" 

  
Napoléon distrusted his motives and suspiciously scrutinized the black bottle on the tray. "Fill the glass and drink it."

  
The bald man settled the tray on the stone bench, filled up the glass, and drank the beverage without hesitation. Napoléon then accepted the offer, and he quenched his thirst with a few large gulps from the same cup until it was empty. The taste was bitter, not his preferred red Burgundy brand, but it was acceptable. Even though the innkeeper never asked for payment, Napoléon brought out the purse from his coat's pocket and generously gave the fellow a twenty-franc gold piece, who thankfully took the money and went away. 

  
Peyrusse came up to Napoléon and reported that four horses were purchased and given to as many lancers. His small army refreshed themselves in the village for about half an hour more before resuming its march northwest again. 

  
The path soon led Napoléon directly to the summit of a sloped ridge. It then took him down to a steep several hundred-foot-deep V-shaped enclosed ravine before it climbed up and snaked around the base of a sloped, tall, broad mountain. The dirt track was narrow to the point his men had to then move in single-file. Fortunately, road signs showed he was getting closer to his next destination. The straggled column reached a new passage between two low-leveled grey mounds. Upon passing them, they were greeted by the sight of the village of Escragnolles. 

  
Napoléon observed the settlement was placed in the narrow valley at the eastern massif's sloped base with wooded hillocks and ridges to the south. Just like the previous hamlet, it was small and lacking in wealth and quality. Peyrusse arrived and nervously informed Napoléon that a mule had fallen to its death in the high passes, along with the gold it carried. Some of the grenadiers and the muleteer tried to stop it from falling but failed. Fortunately, none of the soldiers suffered the same fate as the animal. Peyrusse purchased three more horses from the inhabitants, and they were given to the lancers. The march resumed to their next planned destination to the northwest of Escragnolles. 

  
His army traversed across multiple highly elevated forested hills, small dells, wide passes, and ravines. At one point, Napoléon slipped on the muddy ground and nearly fell over the edge of the road to the steep ravine down below. Three Grenadiers at the column's front had instantly rushed in on time and saved him from likely falling to his death. That almost fatal incident convinced him to hug against the natural wall to prevent further slip-ups. Napoléon was treading carefully on the wet mountain trek. It slowed down his progress, but he could not ignore his safety. If he died, then his journey ended with him. 

  
Napoléon, along with his force, endured against the muddy ground and light snow blanketing much of the terrain. It slowed them down considerably. Napoléon slipped again, but this time, on his back, and was helped up by his Guardsmen, who expressed they were relieved he was alright. 

  
Napoléon took in the surrounding natural heights. It reminded him of the time he had led an army through the Italian Alps fifteen years ago and defeated the Austrians at Marengo in Italy. It was a truly glorious victory, and it had solidified his power as the Consul of France at that time. Now, it seemed like he must march through French mountains and enter France's heartland, but it would not end there. Napoléon understood he needed to regain the throne, and hopefully without spilling a drop of French blood and initiating a civil war in the attempt. 

  
The sun had set, and the temperature dropped. The chilly air forced Napoléon to warm his hands in his pockets. His boots were spattered with snowy-mud along the march. After they marched through a flat defile flanked by two grey ridges, they debouched into a broad valley, where they made it to Séranon. In this community, he intended to stay for the night. He noted the little village was built on a narrow dale, bordered by a northern wall of sheer grey cliffs and the southern timbered mountain range. 

  
Napoléon was impressed by the majestic, immense precipices. To the west of Séranon was a pathway crossing flatland, flanked by the mountains. An elderly grey-haired man in a green closed overcoat presented himself to Napoléon. He claimed to be an uncle of General François Mireur, who had fought and died in his Egyptian expedition, seventeen years ago. Napoléon quickly recognized that famous name. Mireur was notable for being the first who had sung 'La Marseillaise' at Marseilles in 1792 while gathering military volunteers before it was popularized and adopted as the Republic's anthem. 

  
The man then led Napoléon to a small stone hovel with a wooden rooftop. He was introduced to Mireur's mother, who was shorter than him by a few inches. Her appearance was frail, the face was wrinkled, and her long brown hair had white streaks. She wore a black close-bodied gown with a fur-lined white shawl draped over the shoulders. She greeted him as if he were Christ himself, being the first time he stood before her teary eyes. Napoléon engaged in a conversation with her about her deceased son, whom he did not know very well. He remembered he had once served under General Louis Desaix in Egypt and was killed by Mamelukes. His body was recovered. The talk was very emotional for the mother, and she was happy knowing her son had served under him. When they finished their conversation, she was given a sizeable amount of twenty-five gold Napoléons worth at least five-hundred francs, along with his condolences. The gesture was well received, and he departed from her home on good terms. 

  
Napoléon lodged himself in the nearby Château de Broundet with his valets. The drawing-room was where he made himself feel at home was luxurious. A black bearskin carpet was laid out on the polished brown wooden floor in front of the red-bricked hearth that was alit by Ali. The room's four-sided walls were painted crimson and had a hanging portrait of Louis XVIII's chubby face, hooked nose, and white combed hair. Up above, a glass chandelier hung from the thirty-food high white arched wooden ceiling. Napoléon felt relieved to finally remove his outerwear and accouterments and set them aside on a nearby round table. Marchand took care to clean up the mud-stained coat. Ali helped him take his wet boots and socks off his aching feet, and they were placed by the freshly lit fireplace to dry them out. When Marchand later returned with his coat all cleaned up, Napoléon allowed his valets to have the rest of the night off, but they chose to stay with him in the room.   
Napoléon relaxed in the white-cushioned, baroque carved oak chair with armrests, enjoying the warmth of the fire in front of him. He relished his fleeting time of physical relief, but it would not last for long. Time was of the essence. 

  
Right now, the only potential real threat was his old former subordinate, Marshal Masséna, who had been one of his best commanders since they fought together for the first time in Italy in 1796. He had been living in retirement in the past four years since his failed campaign in Portugal and ultimate defeat at Wellesley's hands. If the Marshal was aware of his presence in France, Napoléon was unsure if he was loyal to the King or not. But he must assume by default, out of caution, that Masséna had sided with the Bourbons until there was further information to determine his loyalty. Right now, Masséna might have already dispatched royalist troops to intercept him. Yet, he smiled. 

  
  
_My army would easily outmarch any royalist forces sent to find me._

Marching for Paris and taking it within this month was all that mattered, and everything else would resolve itself whether Masséna could be won over or not remained questionable. Something only in the future would present the answer in due time. Hopefully, the long history he shared with Masséna, who had served under him in numerous campaigns, would at least count for something, and perhaps, even convince the Marshal to be loyal to him, his old Emperor. Napoléon laid his head back against his chair, closed his eyes, and quickly fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting intense, with many more challenges up ahead. I hope you enjoyed this story so far.


	9. Unwelcome

_March 3 rd, 1815_

Napoléon woke up. He fished out his pocket watch and found out he slept for a handful of hours according to the time. It was about three o’clock. The fire from the hearth had burned itself out. It was still the early morning; the sun had not risen yet. Napoléon felt rejuvenated from his brief sleep. His two valets were asleep at the table with their heads buried in their folded arms. He rose from the armchair and got himself dressed, putting on his socks and boots last now that they had been completely dried from the fire during the night.

He stirred up Ali and Marchand. They had bloodshot eyes from the lack of adequate slumber. However, they did their duty to get him his breakfast from a local grocer. They obtained a red apple and a small loaf of brown bread. Nothing more was needed, and his valets were allowed to get more rest. They returned to their previous positions at the table and went back to dozing again.

After Napoléon finished his meal, he brought out his map of France and unfolded it on his lap while he sat in the armchair. He located his current location and quickly decided upon his next destination to the north-west from here. It was too untimely to move out, and he would let his Elban followers gain adequate time to accumulate enough sleep and eat their rations before it was time to leave.

A little after seven o’clock, the sun’s bright yellow rays started to illuminate everything. Napoléon dispatched Ali to relay his orders to Cambronne to march northwest to Castellane by 8:00 in the morning. The General would take his advance guard of Poles and obtain rations of bread, wine, and meat to feed five thousand men. Marchand was instructed to issue his commands to the Elba contingent for departure at 9:00.

Just a quarter before nine o’clock, Napoléon exited from the chateau and entered the town square. His force was assembled, with everyone ready to leave. He noticed several giant piles of blackened, charred wood in the area, most likely bonfires of some kind. His troops must have burned large amounts of firewood to keep themselves warm while they bivouacked. Ali and Marchand were present outside of the doorway. The former held in both hands the reins of Napoléon’s two horses, Taurus and Wagram.

Napoléon and Ali mounted upon the saddles. Then, he gave a wave of his hand before he took the lead, riding out of Séranon, moving onto the path that led to the west. The troops followed him in a single column. Many civilians gathered in small crowds stiffly observed his departure.

After parting from the village, he took the route cutting through the partially wooded green valley, not like before when he and his troops had moved in single file. Napoléon buttoned his gray coat together, trying to keep himself warm from the cold. His stomach suddenly growled hungrily. He thought it was time to take lunch in the nearest village.

The terrain he had gone through grew into a more expansive dale many miles in width and length. Napoléon soon came across a fork in the road, with a wooden sign giving two different directions. He momentarily halted to weigh his decisions. A wooden arrow pointed north-east in La Doire's direction, only two miles away, where the route there became narrow, and it seemed quite hilly. The second arrow directed northward to Le-Logis-du-Pin, where the terrain was comparatively flat. However, the village was farther away by three miles. Since the latter choice was right in his path toward Castellane, he took the second option and resumed the advance.

He later came across the community a few hundred yards away. It was a small, poor hamlet situated on a plain enclosed by large, round, wooded mounds and hillocks. Napoléon roughly guessed there were only several dozen buildings. There was hardly any snow present, just a few light pockets on the fields. Numerous patches of frosted grass glistened in the sunlight. Most of the homes and other buildings were just like those from all the previous mountain villages he had visited yesterday. There was nothing attractive about this one here. When he came within pistol’s shot from the settlement, the people ceased their daily activities. They beheld him and his advancing column, their new visitors.

“Citizens of France, I have returned from my abdication to take my place as your Emperor once more!” Napoléon loudly proclaimed as he rode onto the main dirt street that divided the hamlet into two pieces.

Some of the civilians dreadfully rushed out of sight while others passively watched him stroll into their midst. A few others approached and happily shook his hand—a welcoming experience. The overall reaction was what he had anticipated. The locals here were uninviting regarding his visit. It had been that way so far for the past two days. There were sometimes at least a minority of supporters who loved him in these kinds of towns. He longed for massive crowds to embrace him.

A sudden loud booming noise immediately attracted his attention, and he instantly halted Taurus in dread. “We’re being shot at!” Napoléon bellowed out of panic.

“Protect His Majesty!” Ali instantly commanded as he drew his curved sword and defensively rode into Napoléon’s left flank. A swarm of his Grenadiers immediately encircled him, facing outward, with their muskets ready and aimed in all directions. None of them fired. Napoléon sharply glanced to the rear; the rest of his column was in a similar state of alarm, with their weapons pointed everywhere. The civilians who were already outside were backing away, frightened.

“Sire, that was only a window being shut!” Marchand quickly assured him.

“You are positive?” Napoléon worriedly questioned.

Marchand nodded and pointed at a nearby two-storied white cemented house with a straw rooftop to their left. “I saw someone shut the window hard as we were coming through, sire. There was no musket. We are perfectly safe.”

That calmed down Napoléon’s anxiousness. He exhaled a sigh, feeling at ease. “I’m grateful for your watchful pair of eyes.” He thanked. “Resume the march.”

Marchand relayed his order in his booming voice. “False alarm! Resume the advance!”

The column returned to a calm, orderly state, following his lead.

Napoléon had not felt that scared since his close encounters with the French royalist ships at sea. He was comforted nobody shot at him. It was a real possibility while being in southern France. Fortunately, his past visits to previous villages and towns have been peaceful, at least. He felt stupid for letting himself be lured into a false sense of security because of those recent experiences in the past two days. The moment these royalist regions were put behind him as soon as possible, everything should start getting better for him in the northern friendlier departments.

_The farther north I go, the more people will rally to me._

Napoléon assured himself. The thought gave him solace. At least, that was what he predicted would occur—a calculated risk. Until then, he must deal with the locals’ hostility and possibly even potential assassination attempts until the nation's heartland could be reached.

When Napoléon stopped before a brown one story tall inn at the village's northern edge, he turned to Marchand. “The men can rest here for a short while until I am done eating.”

“Yes, sire.” The valet turned his horse and trotted on back to the column of troops. The valet bellowed his order, and the troops fell out.

“You must come with me, Monsieur Ali.” He apprehensively told his second valet. Napoléon and Ali came down from their saddles and tied the reins to two of the five vacant wooden hitching posts. He entered through the brown door to the building, with Ali coming in after him. It was all chestnut brown inside, the most typical color of any simple tavern or inn, but the shades often varied. Everything from the floors, walls, three-legged chairs, round tables, and planked ceiling used timber as the sole predominant material. There were only two customers who were present, sitting at separate tables. Both were young men in their jackets and trousers and aged likely in their twenties, judging from their appearance. 

Napoléon chose an empty circular table close to the window with closed wooden shutters. It was a little dirty with a thin layer of dust and some little flakes, likely bread crumbs. He brushed it off the surface with his grey sleeve. A stockily built man with combed red hair and garbed in brown trousers, bronze-buckled shoes, and a white waistcoat over a loose long-sleeved shirt arrived where Napoléon was seated. “Greetings, Monsieur. I am the owner of this establishment.” He welcomed him like a regular customer and never addressed him as either ‘Sire or ‘Your Majesty.’ Was the innkeeper deliberately disrespectful for political reasons, or did he genuinely not know his identity? A Frenchman who did not recognize him by sight alone? His clothing should have made it obvious. Or perhaps, he was just overthinking about this minor thing?

“What do you have to offer, Monsieur?” Napoléon inquired, putting aside his trivial thinking.

“I have simple things, such as broth, oat porridge, and bread pudding. As for beverages, I have ale and wine.”

“The broth and a cup of wine will do for me, Monsieur.”

“It will cost a total of eight centimes, Monsieur.” 

Napoléon brought out his drawstring purse and handed the eight bronze pieces to the owner before taking his leave from the table.

“Will you not participate, Monsieur Ali?”

“I am not hungry, sire.”

“Suit yourself.”

Ali stood beside him with his hand resting on the bronze pommel of his curved black-sheathed saber. The other two customers left the inn a few minutes apart from each other, with their wooden plates and bowls left behind on the tables.

The innkeeper arrived with the meal. The broth soon warmed up his body from the inside. He quickly finished his lunch and left the table. “Did you enjoy your meal, sire?” The owner’s sudden question caused Napoléon to stop in his tracks.

Napoléon turned around. “Yes, I did. It was good.” He complimented.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The innkeeper smiled from behind his wooden counter, cleaning a wooden cup with a grey cloth.

“Since you knew who I am, why did you merely address me as ‘Monsieur’?”

“It’s terrible for my business if people here knew about my sympathies for you, sire. I’ve always kept it hidden. Now that you are my last customer to leave, I was comfortable enough to bid farewell to you properly.”

Napoléon tipped his hat to him. “Good day to you, Monsieur?”

The owner nodded with a smile.

After he departed from the building, his commands were given, and the troops were getting back again into formation. When everyone was ready, Napoléon led his force out of the hamlet and onto the road to Castellane.

The path he took was simple, with no enormous natural obstacles in the way. It led him past a series of forested knolls and more considerable mounds. The trek later took him to the base of a ridge, going westward. The route turned, and it led him to an enclosed valley, encircled by more extensive foothills.

He gazed at the impressive sight of a massive broad mountain that ran east to west to the north. The road made another bend. This time it guided him north-west, between a high-leveled hill and a comparatively smaller hammock.

Napoléon suddenly heard some loud clattering from above. It sounded like a significant rumbling of rocks and pebbles. He felt one of the latter hitting his hat before it bounced off.

Enquiringly, he lifted his head, and the sight forced him to stop Taurus abruptly. He widened his eyes in alarming shock. There was a landslide. It involved several large man-sized boulders and many smaller rocks tumbling down from the mountain's rocky face. It fell over the narrow road in front of him about ten feet away.

Any closer, and it would have crushed him. None of the boulders got stuck on the path, luckily. Everything had crashed down into the deep ravine to his left. After the danger had passed, he continued the march.

When it was noon, Napoléon beheld a town located on a dale flanked by massive massifs and several tall mountains. It looked like this was Castellane. The last road marker he had seen forty minutes ago made it clear he was only a mile away. The township was larger with several hundred buildings. It was relatively wealthier in appearance than all the other mountain villages he had gone through so far. Its dwellings and rooftops were colorful, very much like what he had seen in Grasse.

When Napoléon rode close enough, about a few hundred yards off, he spotted a pair of guards at the community’s southern entrance. They were wearing vivid blue and red uniforms, square-shaped hats, and armed with long spears. He quickly realized those were his Poles upon seeing the pennant flags attached to their lances.

They had seen him too when one of them came running toward him on foot. 

The lancer reached him in a few minutes. “Your Majesty.” He spoke French through his thick Polish accent. It was intelligible to him. “We have succeeded in collecting the exact number of rations needed to feed the troops. Everything had been collected in the town’s square, and it is ready to be distributed upon your word, sire.” 

“Good.” He was pleased it was a success. The General was the right choice as the advance guard commander. “Return to Général Cambronne and tell him that I have arrived.”

“Yes, sire.” The Pole hurried on back as fast as he could to the municipality. He disappeared upon entering Castellane.

Napoléon turned to Marchand. “Go back and inform generals Drouot and Bertrand that the supplies had been gathered, and they can start distributing them when we enter the town square.”

“Understood, sire.” Marchand turned his horse and cantered down along the marching column of troops.

Napoléon reached the entrance of Castellane, entering one of its grey stone-paved avenues. The other Polish guard was instructed to lead the way to the town square. Some of the locals were present, and they hastily returned to their homes when they saw him. A few boldly cursed at him, with words like ‘Invader’ or ‘Usurper.’ He ignored the remarks.

At the end of the street, he came upon a square-shaped cobbled opening in the center of Castellane, where the requisitioned food supplies were collected. The rations were put in crates, bottles, bags, and other wood and metal containers. A dozen Poles were guarding everything. There were about twelve civilians present there. Many paid no attention, and others gave him dirty looks, making it obvious he was unwelcomed here.

“Sire!” It was Cambronne’s voice.

Napoléon turned to the right. A cropped blonde-haired fellow accompanied his General on foot. He was well-dressed in a black single-breasted closed frock coat, with brown trousers and black leather bronze buckled shoes. The two men stopped five feet away from him. “You’ve done well, Général Cambronne.” Napoléon commended. His General simply nodded.

“Sire. This is Monsieur Francoul, who was the Sous-Préfet of Castellane.” Cambronne introduced the stranger.

“Greetings, sire.” Francoul made a quick head bow.

“So, you _were_ the Sous-Préfet?” Napoléon observed. “What happened, Monsieur Francoul?”

“His Majesty, the King, had me removed from my office,” Francoul answered, displaying some disappointment. “I’m expecting my replacement, the Marquis de Villeneuve-Bargemon, to arrive, but he isn’t here to take my position.”

“I see. I have every intention of rectifying every problem caused by the Bourbons.” He vaguely promised. It made Francoul beam in hope.

“Thank you, sire. When I heard from your subordinate that you were coming, I was hoping that you, sire, would do me the honor of dining with me at my home.”

“Of course.” Napoléon gladly accepted. “You can lead the way, Monsieur Francoul.” He followed the former Prefect.

They neared a three-storied house in the northern end of the town square. The home was made up of brown earth-colored bricks, and the slanted rooftop was white. Its nine glass windows were evenly divided by the number of floors. Along the way, he was joined up by Marchand. “Are there other guests who have been invited?” He asked of Francoul.

“No. I originally planned this for the two of us, sire. But, I was prepared for the possibility that if Your Majesty wishes it, we can have four more people participate.”

“I would like you to invite Le Maire of Castellane. Is he here?”

“Yes, sire.”

Napoléon was glad the Mayor had not run away, or maybe, he was sympathetic to him as a supporter? “Is Le Maire loyal to the King or me?”

“Unfortunately, he loves the former.” Francoul slightly frowned out of disapproval of the Mayor’s allegiance.

“Still, I want him to attend the dinner.” Napoléon insisted. “Please, make it clear to him I would be deeply disappointed if he does not come, and all that it implies.” He was sure his vaguely hollow veiled threat would work. Since royalists naturally were afraid of him, he might as well take advantage of it. “I require him to perform a service for me. Will you provide me with a single piece of paper and writing materials? It’s important.”

“Of course, sire.” Francoul came up and unlocked the front door before he opened it. He gestured for Napoléon to come in first.

Napoléon came down from his horse, giving the reins to Ali. “Do you have a stable in this town?” He asked of Francoul.

“Yes, sire. It’s located just south of the town’s square, near the southern entrance.” 

“With your permission, sire, I will immediately see to it that Your Majesty’s horses are watered and feed,” Ali said.

“Stay where you are for a moment.” Napoléon took out his map of France, unfolded it, and found his current position on the paper. He quickly determined his next final destination for the day and returned it to his pocket. “All right, you can take my horses there.” He permitted. “After you have done that, tell Monsieur Peyrusse where the stable is located. Afterward, relay to Général Cambronne that I want him to move out in an hour by one o’clock with his same advance guard once more and make it to Barrême north-west of here. He will do there what he did in Castellane, by collecting rations to feed the same number of men as before. This time, I want him to tell Le Maire of Barrême that those provisions will be paid for upon my arrival. I will be staying in Barrême for the night, and I want Général Cambronne to prepare my lodgings and dinner before I arrive.” His valet nodded and trotted away with Taurus.

“Monsieur Marchand, you can come with me and dine with us.” Napoléon offered.

“Yes, sire. I first need to put my horse away in that stable first, and then I will return.”

“Then go.”

Marchand rode off after Ali.

Napoléon entered through the doorway before Francoul shut it. The wooden walls and twenty-foot-high planked ceilings of the house were painted snow-white, and the floor was laid out in polished marble of the same color. His host led the way through an open archway, entering what looked like a four-walled rectangular-shaped dining room. Its walls and floor were white and made from the same materials. Napoléon concluded that Francoul must be financially well-off.

The grey-stoned lit fireplace warmed the room at the eastern end of the room. There was a finely carved rectangular crimson painted wooden table in the center of the dining place with six elaborately crafted blue cushioned empty seats that had armrests. Napoléon immediately observed that the table’s surface was devoid of prepared food. However, there were porcelain plates, bowls, silver eating utensils, folded white cloth napkins, glass cups, and six glass bottles of wine.

“I do apologize for the empty table. Your General did not know when you would arrive exactly, sire. I hope Your Majesty would not mind if we dine on food delivered from the local inn.”

“No, not at all, Monsieur Francoul. May I take a seat?” A nod from Francoul was given. Napoléon took a chair at the side of the table, with his back facing a glass window.

Francoul nodded. “Now, I will send word to the inn to ready some food. I’ll make sure they will cook only the best they have available.”

“It sounds appetizing,” Napoléon commented.

“Please, by all means, feel free to drink some of the wine while you wait, sire.”

“Thank you, Monsieur. Will you please bring me those writing materials I require?”

Francoul left the room. He came back with the things Napoléon needed and set them down on the table. His host left the house, but not before letting Napoléon know that the front door would be unlocked just in case if Monsieur Marchand should return sooner than he would. Napoléon wrote down what needed to be done. He waited for the ink to dry up, and when it did in a few minutes, he folded the paper and slid it into his coat’s pocket. Someone was knocking on the door.

“Is that you, Monsieur Marchand?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You can come into the house. Monsieur Francoul left the door unlocked so you can come inside. He is outside, likely making his trip to the inn.” His aide opened the door, came inside, and took his seat next to him.

According to his watch, it was almost half an hour after noon. Only a few minutes later, Francoul returned to the house. He brought with him a new guest, who was introduced as Saint-Martin, the Mayor of Castellane. Napoléon shook hands with the civil servant before returning to his seat. He appeared to be older than Francoul but still young, perhaps in his thirties. He had wavy brown hair with sideburns, a square-shaped face, brown eyes, and a straight nose. He wore a black top hat, a red coat, dark brown breeches, a white waistcoat, stockings, and silver-buckled brown leather shoes. He took his seat on the opposite side of the table. Four out six seats were taken up, with Francoul sitting opposite of Napoléon on the other side of the table.

“Monsieur le Maire?”

“Yes, sire?” The Mayor acted indifferently to his presence.

“Give this to him,” Napoléon instructed as he pulled out the folded paper from his grey pocket and gave it to Marchand, who then handed it to the civil servant. “You see, Monsieur le Maire, I need a favor from you. I’ve written down the instructions and the names of two men who are with me.”

The Mayor read the paper's contents, with some difficulty, as he leaned in more closely. He looked up at Napoléon and inquired, “So, you want me to provide two passports for them?”

“Yes. When you are finished eating, I would like you to provide me with those papers, and that will be all I want from you, Monsieur le Maire.”

The Mayor reluctantly folded the paper and slid it into his outer pocket. “I will do as you have asked of me, sire.” He stiffly said.

“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire.”

Napoléon and Francoul became engaged in a conversation. It started when Francoul humbly asked of him what it was like living on Elba. Napoléon went on in detail, explaining what he did during those ten months, ruling that island. Even the Mayor asked a few questions, but he was mostly silent, just listening.

Napoléon rechecked the time. It was a quarter before one o’clock. Small talk between Francoul and the Mayor dominated the table. The host answered the door after knocking was heard. The food from the nearby inn was delivered by those who owned the place. Three large wooden dishes were brought in and put on the table. There were some hot potatoes on one, several roast beef slabs on another, and freshly-baked bread made up the third. Finally, a black steaming pot of vegetable soup was presented.

Francoul made grace. Napoléon joined even though he was not a believer in Christianity, but never saw himself as a godless man. The prayer was finished, and everyone reached for whatever they wanted from the four dishes. Napoléon filled his plate with a slab of roast beef, some bread, and a single potato. A few minutes later into the meal, someone banged on the door several times. Francoul went up to answer it. There was some indistinct talking being made, but it was brief. A pair of walking shoes came through the doorway. Napoléon turned. It was Ali.

“I apologize for interrupting, sire.” The valet said. “I have come to report that Monsieur Peyrusse had purchased every strong horse from the town’s stable, except Wagram, Taurus, and Monsieur Marchand’s horse, as I made sure they were not taken by accident. We should have enough horses to outfit seven more lancers.”

“Splendid,” Napoléon was pleased. “Do you have anything else I need to know?”

“The food supplies collected in the town square had been fully distributed to everyone. As for one final thing, Général Cambronne had left with his vanguard as instructed just ten minutes ago before one, sire.”

“Good. I want you to tell my other two generals to ready the troops by two o’clock for us to move out to Barrême. When you have done that, you can join us here for dinner if you so wish.”

“Thank you for the offer, sire, but I’ve already eaten my fill.”

“All right then, you may leave now.”

Ali bowed his head and left through the doorway. Francoul closed the door and returned to his seat, and resumed eating. The Mayor was the first to finish his meal. He excused himself, stating he needed to create those passports that were required. Napoléon then instructed the Mayor to bring the papers to this house when he was done. Only three of them were left at the table. Napoléon took his time to enjoy his lunch, for he was not in a hurry. His aide, Marchand, had devoured everything by the time Napoléon was halfway done with his plate. Marchand checked his pocket watch. “Sire, it is half an hour past one. Should I get the horses ready for our departure?”

“Yes, do it. While you are at it, bring to me Messieurs Peyrusse, l’Hérault, and the surgeon, Émery **.** ” Marchand took his leave from the table and left the house, leaving only himself and Francoul. 

“I do wish you all the luck in the world for you to succeed, sire.” Francoul said.

“I think my luck had not abandoned me since I left Elba.” Napoléon confidently stated. “I don’t believe it will abandon me any time soon.”

Nothing more was spoken between them. By the time Napoléon finished and again checked the time, it was twenty minutes before two o’clock. Good, twenty minutes ahead of schedule. The ticking device was returned to his pocket _._ He stood up from his chair. “Monsieur Francoul. I thank you for this excellent meal. I must continue my journey to Paris without further delay.”

Francoul smiled. “It was my greatest pleasure to have dined with you, sire.”

Francoul escorted Napoléon to the door and took his leave from the house. Marchand and Ali were both there outside, waiting for him on horseback, with the latter holding the reins of Taurus. Marchand had brought the three men he requested. Two of whom were mounted, and they came down from their horses when he was in their presence. The third gentleman, the renowned curly, light ash brown-haired, square-jawed Joseph-Augustin-Apollinaire Émery, his Imperial Guard surgeon, had arrived on foot. He was arrayed in a blue closed frock coat, white breeches tucked under his black knee-high boots. He respected Émery as a talented healer who was highly devoted to him. 

André Pons de l'Hérault, his balding, round-faced fellow with spectacles and inspector of Elba's Rio Marina iron mines, was beside Émery. He looked every bit like a savvy businessman in his single-breasted dark brown jacket, long white trousers, and black riding boots. Napoléon’s relationship with him was friendly, but it was not like that before. It reminded him of when l'Hérault strongly opposed his rise to power fifteen years ago and criticized the nature of his rule, much to his annoyance back then. But Napoléon had become friendly with l'Hérault during his reign of the island and appreciated him for his loyalty, honesty, and capabilities in running the mines. The inspector had proven himself to be more useful when he set up the little fleet that sailed him to France.

Standing next to Marchand was the Mayor, who came up and handed to Napoléon two yellow passport papers.

“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire. I will no longer need your services now. You may leave.” The Mayor silently departed.

Napoléon approached l’Hérault and gave him his passport. “Monsieur l’Hérault, since you’re Maréchal Masséna’s friend, I want you to head to Marseilles, assuming he is still there, and tell him that I am being assisted by the Austrian government and the Royal Navy. That should make him consider his support for me.”[1] It was a calculated bluff, hopefully, one that might work for him. 

l’Hérault seemed a bit hesitant for a moment, but he then slowly nodded once. “It will be done, sire.” His face betrayed some measure of reluctance.

“Do you disapprove of the task?” Napoléon inquired.

“It’s the possibility of failure I fear, sire. I’m not sure if the bluff would work.”

“As long there is a chance for it to succeed, it’s worth it.”

“Should I leave immediately, sire?”

“You can wait until we reach Digne before heading south.” Napoléon knew l’Hérault would loyally do his duty regardless of how he felt.

“Yes, sire.” l’Hérault said.

Napoléon turned to Peyrusse again. “When Monsieur l’Hérault is ready to leave, give him at least nineteen-hundred francs for his journey to Marseilles.”

“I’ll remember to do that, sire.”

Napoléon went up to his Imperial Guard surgeon and gave him the last paper. “As for you, I want you to push up far while spreading the news of my return and put emphasis that several foreign powers support me. When you reach Grenoble, contact your old glovemaker acquaintance, Jean Dumoulin, and work together to prepare the city for my arrival.” With his surgeon and the informant working together, he believed it would help him take Grenoble.

“Yes, Mon Empereur. I will find him, and we’ll make sure the city is ready for you.”

“Good. When we reach Digne, you will be given the same amount of money from my treasury as Monsieur l’Hérault. You’ll also receive a small pile of my proclamations before you leave for Grenoble.”

“I understand everything, sire.” 

Napoléon addressed everyone present. “Messieurs, it’s time to depart.” He mounted upon Taurus and trotted away, with his valets following him.

When it was close to two o’clock, Napoléon led his army out of Castellane to the north-west. The road soon snaked its way up from the valley to the massive mountains themselves. The Elban force was forced to march into a long, thin column again on the narrow dirt trek. As they marched up higher, the terrain grew more elevated and hillier. The weather grew colder for them, and they trudged their way through wet mud and light snow.

BOOM!

An unexpected crackling noise echoed off the terrain. Napoléon’s heart frightfully thumped rapidly, and he anxiously produced some beads of sweat off his forehead, despite the cool temperature. He immediately stopped Taurus in his tracks, and the rest of the column halted behind him. It was not thunder; that was unmistakably a musket shot. It came from up ahead somewhere and sounded like it was fired from within a pistol’s range. However, no assassin was spotted in the surrounding dense forest or on the road cutting through it.

Napoléon immediately dismounted from Taurus to look less of a large target. He reactively selected ten of his Grenadiers from the front ranks, put them into two teams, and ordered them to investigate the shot's source up ahead. They were told to return in ten minutes. Another ten men were chosen to surround his person in all directions if the musket shot might have come from somewhere else in the wooded area. He took safety behind his tall Guardsmen, all of them easily dwarfed him by several inches, in addition to their black bearskin hats and red plumes.

Napoléon peaked between two Grenadiers' blue-sleeved arms. He observed that the two teams he dispatched rushed forward in a loose formation, with their muskets at the ready. The road gradually went up about thirty yards away to the point that he could not see the other side. One of the teams descended on over the summit and disappeared. The second Grenadier group followed them, and they too left his sight.

He fished out his pocket watch and often checked the time, counting the number of minutes that went by one by one. The first five minutes were uneventful. The Grenadier teams had not returned, but there was no musket shot heard in the distance. A disturbing possibility entered his thoughts, and a shiver crawled up his spine. Was there another assassin? If so, how many? Perhaps, the one who fired the shot was a deliberately planned diversion. The real killers could be much closer than he expected. They might be waiting for him to mount up on Taurus again if he believed it was safe to travel. Would this end up as a lengthy stand-off? If that were the case, then it must be solved quickly.

Napoléon selected his rearmost Guardsman and instructed him to organize two more teams, each numbering thirty strong. They would search for any assassins fifty yards to the east and west of the road. They must look behind every bush and up into the tree branches, where the shooters could be concealing themselves.

The order was carried out, and within a few minutes, two teams were fanned out in those given directions, in a loose formation. The men thoroughly investigated every bit of natural vegetation. Others kept their eyes and muskets up at the tree branches. So far, nobody was discovered.

“Sire!” Someone shouted from up ahead. “We’ve come back!”

Napoléon peered between two Grenadiers. His teams have returned, coming over the sloped road, with two distinct men accompanying them. They were attired in brown long-sleeved coats, leggings, black shoes, and grey fur hats. The assumed assassins were oddly still armed with muskets and were strangely not being restrained by his Guardsmen. It was like the pair were coming of their own volition. He was curious over what was going on but decided to remain within his circle of Grenadiers, not entirely sure if he was indeed safe.

The Grenadier teams approached his circle. A Sergeant casually introduced the two men to him. The elderly looking fellow with combed auburn hair, a thick brown beard, and a mustache was named Maurice. The second younger, clean-shaven fellow, and the same height as the former, was Joseph.

“Sire, we have discovered the source of whoever fired that shot.” The Guardsman pointed to Maurice, who nodded in confirmation. He did not seem hostile, and that greatly perplexed Napoléon.

“It is true, Your Majesty,” Maurice admitted in his husky aged voice. “My son and I were hunting rabbits. I got myself one with one good shot.”

“Do you have proof to back up your claim, Monsieur?” Napoléon skeptically asked.

One of the Grenadiers stepped forward with a grey and white-furred bunny held by the scruff of its neck. There was a red hole in the stomach, with red streams of blood still pouring out. Napoléon’s anxiousness subsided. That was the proof he needed, and he thought no more of it. Napoléon gently pushed his way out of the protective Guardsmen circle.

“It is a well-placed shot, Monsieur.” Napoléon complimented. “How far away were you when you fired?”

“I think it was roughly thirty yards, sire,” Maurice answered proudly. He brandished his dark brown musket with the butt and stock curved a little downward. It was noticeably shorter than the standard lighter brown Charleville model. “I’ve had this Fusil de Chasse for decades. My son is carrying a new one purchased two months ago.”

“I wish you continued success in your hunting, Messieurs. You may go on your way.”

“Thank you, sire. In return, I wish you hope in retaking France.”

“I appreciate that.” Napoléon tersely replied, wanting to be on his way now. “Well, then, I must leave, Messieurs. Good day to you both.”

“Yes, sire, and good luck to you.” Maurice and his son departed, heading into the eastern woods. With this whole thing resolved, Napoléon remounted back on Taurus and reformed his troops. After all the soldiers returned to the column, the march was resumed.

He was thankful it was a false alarm, but it slowed him down, and time was not a luxury he had. At the same time, he could not just dismiss the possibility of assassination attempts. Any musket shot was potentially a serious threat. Napoléon hoped there would be few, preferably no more of these incidents. Two shots were successively fired in the distance off to the eastern woods. This time, he knew what was going on and did not panic.

Napoléon was grateful he had not encountered any more real or false life-threatening situations. The travel had been quiet since that incident with the hunters and hoped it would remain that way. Napoléon rode up higher into the mountainous terrain, following the dirt path. He soon emerged out of the forested area and came upon a more barren, rocky, grey landscape with little vegetation. A white, stony ravine about a few hundred feet steep flanked his left; the sight impressed and scared him at the same time. Conscious of possible landslides like the last time, he hugged against the right-handed side of the road against the natural wall while keeping an eye out for any large crushing boulders.

According to the road signs along the way, the village of Senez should be located just a little further away beyond this rocky area. He remembered it was the only settlement that stood between him and Barrême, according to his map.

After he traversed through a V-shaped passage between two mountains and entered a broad, bumpy, and wooded valley, Napoléon reached Senez. Several comparatively low-leveled mounds, ridges, and hillocks bordered the little hamlet. He allowed his troops to stay there for an hour, just long enough to refresh themselves and for Peyrusse to buy up more local horses.

Napoléon learned from the civilians that a group of lancers led by an officer had come into Senez. They simply passed through without stopping. Napoléon knew it was Cambronne. The community was relatively small, with scores of buildings made up of stone, bricks, wood, and hundreds of people living here. He beheld the tallest structure. A grey and white bricked cathedral about several stories tall with brown shingled sloped rooftops and a rectangular-shaped bell tower with tall, arched windows. It resembled a monastery from the Dark Ages than an actual grand cathedral such as Notre Dame in Paris. Out of his interest, one of the locals revealed some parts of its history. The cathedral of Senez had existed since the 13th century. Protestants had severely damaged it during the religious wars of France during the 16th century.

When it was time, he put Senez behind him. Napoléon and his mounted household rode at the head. All the lancers on horseback trailed after him, making up the army’s leading front. The sun was descending from the sky and soon became the early evening.

The valley remained undulated like a wave, going uphill and downward, but not steeply. The route was easy for Napoléon. There were no incidents along the way, fortunately. The light of day had nearly given way to nighttime a little after 7:00. The interspersed road signs made it clear that Barrême was very close, only a few more miles away.

At around half an hour later, he came to Barrême.[2] A town of similar size to Senez in the number of buildings indicated a population somewhere likely in the high hundreds. The community appeared low in quality like most of the other villages he previously visited. This one was built upon a piece of even ground, with large farming fields seen to the north-east. Barrême was situated beside gently slanted mountains from the west and north.

Napoléon quickly spotted the fluttering red over white pennant flags belonging to three Polish lancers. They were posted outside of Barrême’s eastern outskirts. One of the Poles there ran into the community. Napoléon and his household entered the town, accompanied by the dismounted lancer sentries. Napoléon rode through a few grey stoned streets. Along the way, more troops from Cambronne’s vanguard joined and protectively encircled him. Many of the town’s inhabitants were present. He waved to them, but very few responded to him positively. Most of them watched indifferently. General Cambronne appeared on horseback from around a corner up ahead and joined him on the same street.

“Have you had any trouble in doing what needed to be done, Général Cambronne?” Napoléon asked, but he was confident of the expected answer.

“None, sire. I was able to obtain those provisions, all gathered in the town square. Le Maire is expecting the payment as promised.”

“Tell him to settle the issue with my treasurer, who should be coming up from the rear. He can receive his money when Monsieur Peyrusse arrives.”

“I’ll tell him that much, sire,” Cambronne said. “As instructed, your lodgings and dinner have been prepared for you, sire, at the town magistrate’s house.”

“I see. Did you have to requisition the place?”

“Yes, I did.” Cambronne casually replied, clearly unbothered by the act. In the end, Napoléon supposed it was fundamentally no different from all the times his General had forcibly obtained provisions on his behalf.

They emerged from the street and immediately entered the grey cobbled town square. There were only dozens of people there, doing their daily activities. The supplies were all there, gathered in the center. Napoléon waved at the civilians, who beheld his presence, only to be shunned or eschewed. **Émery** and l’Hérault had come up from the rear. They asked Cambronne where a local tavern or coaching inn was nearby. The General pointed to a brown two-storied wooden building on the eastern side of the town square, telling them it was a coaching inn. Both **Émery** and l’Hérault headed for the establishment.

“Where is this house you mentioned?” Napoléon asked Cambronne.

“It’s the biggest one, but it’s not here in the town square. It’s located in the center of Barrême.” Cambronne took the lead. Napoléon and his remaining household followed, moving away from the square and entered into a new street.

“Général Drouot, Général Bertrand.”

“Yes, sire?” Both answered simultaneously.

“Order the troops to disperse and collect the provisions in the town square.”

“It will be done, sire,” Drouot said with a nod. The two generals turned their horses. Orders were loudly bellowed by Bertrand, bringing the mounted lancers to a halt. The clip-clopping of the Polish steeds moved away. 

At the end of the street, Cambronne stopped his horse in front of a large house. “This is the place, sire.” The General pointed at the building before them.

It was three stories tall, built with white cement, square-shaped, and had a tower, most likely a chimney. Five of its windows were made from glass, and the roof was composed of overlapping brown metal shingles.

“This will do just fine.” Napoléon dismounted from Taurus, giving the reins to Ali. “You know what to do.”

Ali nodded, taking both of Napoléon’s horses with him. His valet asked Cambronne if he knew where a stable could be found, and the General told him that it was in the next street north of this large house. Ali trotted away, and Marchand followed him.

Napoléon approached the door and knocked on it several times, loudly. He heard footsteps coming from inside, getting closer until it stopped. The door was unlocked, and three people stood in the doorway, two men and a woman.

The first gentleman, who seemed the oldest, wore a white wig, an unbuttoned single-breasted tailcoat brown jacket over a black waistcoat, along with trousers of the same color and buckled shoes. His brown hair was natural in its form, untamed, but it was not wild and unchecked. He bore a square face, with a sharp, pointy jawline. The eyes were light brown, and his nose was hooked from the middle. At around 5’9, he was taller by his guess than the other two people in the doorway, by perhaps four inches.

The woman, who looked much younger, was pretty, with short, dark brown hair done in ringlets. Her eyes were green, the cheekbones were high, and the nose was small but straight. She was attired in a high-waisted white gown, with her arms covered with sleeves and the shoulders draped with a black shawl. She wore white slippers on her feet.

Next to the woman, there stood a young man of similar youthful age and the same height. He had a round face, light brown eyes, and a sharp nose. The fellow was arrayed in a black vest over a white loose sleeved shirt, brown breeches, and black buckled shoes.

Napoléon focused on the older man. “Are you the house’s proprietor?”

“Yes, sire.” He was soft-spoken.

“What’s your name.”

“I’m Monsieur Tartanson.”

His eyes drifted on over to the younger man. “And this young man?”

“He’s my son.”

What’s he do?”

“He’s a receiver of taxes.”

Napoléon held out his hand, offering a shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur.” The young man stiffly took his hand and shook it several times before gently breaking the contact.

“I feel the same way, sire.” The son formally greeted in his low voice.

“And who is this fine, young woman?” Napoléon asked of the son.

“She is my wife, sire.” The young gentleman answered.

Napoléon turned to the girl, who seemed shy, not looking directly at him. “Hello, Madame. Your husband is quite fortunate to have someone as beautiful as you.”

“Monsieur, I have the honor to salute you.” She greeted with ill coordination.

“Madame, it’s the Emperor.” Cambronne politely chastised the woman, who appeared embarrassed.

“Général Cambronne. Go and assist in distributing the supplies in the town square.”

“Yes, sire.” Cambronne left Napoléon alone outside of the doorway, trotting away on the street.

“I’ve been told that supper had been prepared before my arrival. Is this true?” Napoléon imposingly inquired.

“It is, sire.” The father of the younger Tartanson answered. “It is still hot and ready over a fire. It can be served at any time.”

“What is it?”

“The lentil soup is what’s immediately available.” The father told him. “This was originally meant to feed my employees who work for me. Your General had stationed two lancers as guards in the kitchen, and they are still there right now.”

“I see,” Napoléon simply said, feeling assured the meal was not poisoned. “So, where exactly are my lodgings, as my General told me they too had been readied for me?”

“It’s here on the first floor.” The son responded. “I can show Your Majesty where.”

“Thank you.”

The family moved out of the way. Napoléon came through the doorway and into their house. The son led him through a wooden archway that led into a nearby drawing-room, where they went to a closed door. Tartanson took hold of the iron door handle, opened it without a key, and Napoléon entered through. It was decent. It had a single glass window, a bed with four twisted iron posters, and white curtains. There was a rectangular white painted table with two simple red cushioned chairs. Next to the bed, there was a black nightstand with a round mirror hanging above it. A large dark brown superbly crafted armchair with a black sitting cushion was put in the room's corner. An opened lavatory closet was the last thing seen.

Napoléon sauntered to the armchair and comfortably sat down. His body sank, seated upon the cushion. It was quite relaxing to him. In the doorway, the son was not alone there. His father was there as well.

“How do you find these lodgings, sire?” The father coolly asked.

“It is more than adequate, Monsieur Tartanson,” Napoléon said approvingly. He gestured for the father and son to come inside with a single gentle wave of his hand. They both entered, but the door remained open. “When I arrived, my forces in the town are small, but they are not alone in the country.” He declared to them, with the intent of mixing facts with bluffs. He calculated that the Tartanson family would spread this misinformation after he left the town with his force. In turn, the false news would travel to other parts of France and make it easier for him to move north to Paris with little to no resistance. The Bourbons would not know fact from fiction. “There have been several landings at various points in the former province of Provence simultaneously with mine. My cavalry and artillery are taking the main road.” He vaguely stated. “We’ll be joining up later on. The whole army is on my side, and the Bourbons won’t be able to hold on. But they needn’t worry for their fate.”

The eldest Tartanson spoke up. “The troops may be for you, but not the populace, at least not in this part of the country.”

The incident with the garrison of Antibes came to mind. As long as they did not know the real facts, Napoléon knew he was safe. He let the subject become cold before he turned to something different. “The Bourbons will hear I’m back. The Empress, too, is on her way to Paris, where we’ll arrive simultaneously. On 20th March, I’ll sleep at the Tuileries.” The last he heard, his wife was still in Vienna with their son, and no coordination with Austria existed. Just more fiction, he brought up to help him improve his circumstances. Napoléon turned to the son. “So, you’ll be coming along with us, eh?” He asked, trying to obtain favor from the magistrate so that it would improve his image. “You’ll be one of ours, isn’t that so? I shan’t forget you. I’ll make your fortune. I’ll give you a high rank.” He enticingly offered.

The son did not seem tempted by his promises. “Sire, I am my father’s only child and son. I have a wife and a boy of my own to look after.” He politely said his long ‘no.’ “I’ll be more useful to my county by staying here at Barrême.

“You’ll be missing a great opportunity for yourself, Monsieur.” The wife of the younger Tartanson appeared from the doorway and stood beside her husband. She brought with her someone new. A young boy, about three feet tall, was holding the woman’s hand. The child had a heart-shaped face, brown eyes, and curly hair. His clothing consisted of a white, long-sleeved shirt, light brown trousers, and little black shoes. Napoléon smiled at the young boy, who seemed a little shy. “Hello, young man.” He greeted him in a friendly manner. The boy timidly waved with his fingers. Napoléon looked to the mother. “What is the young fellow’s name?”

“His name is Alphonse.” She answered.

“What is his age?”

“He is four.”

Napoléon’s eyes widened, and then he chuckled. The boy reminded him of his son. “The age of the Roi de Rome! My boy will soon become four on the twentieth of this month very soon. I’ll be there in Paris when it happens.” He switched his attention back to the wife’s husband. “I’ll make you a squadron leader on the spot.” He persisted with his offers. “I’ll make it my personal responsibility to see you’re promoted.”

The young Tartanson was not moved, still the same as before. “I very respectfully decline these generous offers, sire. My family needs me here to look after them.”

Napoléon gave up, but whether his offer was accepted was not the point. It was not a lie. It was done in front of the father, here in the room as a witness to his generous nature, even though it was done for show. “As you wish, Monsieur Tartanson. If you do change your mind, then let me know before I leave tomorrow. I thank you for showing me to this room and for your time.”

The son nodded. “Come.” He addressed his family. “Let us give His Majesty some privacy.” Everyone left the room, and the door was closed.

Napoléon refreshed himself in the lavatory. Just a few minutes after he was finished with his business, someone was knocking on his door. “Come inside.” He invited. The door opened. Marchand and Ali came inside the room.

“Good evening, sire.” Marchand greeted. “Monsieur Tartanson, the father…”

“Which father?” Napoléon interrupted with his question. “There is the elder and the younger.”

“Oh, I mean the oldest one, sire.” Marchand corrected.

“I see. So, you were saying?”

“The elder Tartanson wanted me to ask of Your Majesty when you would like to eat supper?”

The mention of eating made Napoléon’s stomach grumble. He checked the time. It was nearly half an hour past eight. “I’ll take it in ten minutes. Tell that to Monsieur Tartanson. The both of you may attend the dinner.”

“Yes, sire. And thank you, sire.” Marchand left the room.

“Ali, go out and find my generals. I would like them to have dinner with me. As for one final thing, fetch a bottle with my prepared coffee. It should be in my baggage.”

“Yes, sire.” Ali, too, departed.

When it was time, Napoléon was shown to Ali's dining room, where he took his seat. The dinner was brought in by servants who worked for Tartanson. Two Polish lancers accompanied them. It reminded him that Tartanson mentioned they were the same ones who were in the kitchen. Another five minutes later, his valets and all three of his generals arrived and took their seats at the table. 

The lentil soup was served in bowls. A cod dish, several loaves of bread, and a small wooden bowl of fruit, consisting only of red and green apples, were included in the supper. The wine was poured for the generals and his two valets. Napoléon had his bottle of prepared coffee served in one of the porcelain cups belonging to this house. The beverage was cold, but he did not mind it. Small talk ensued during the dinner.

When the meal was finished, and the dishes were taken away, Napoléon dispatched Ali outside to spread the word to the officers of his Guard that they can come into this house and sleep here for the night. His generals were given the same invitation to stay here to rest, and they were shown to their spare rooms by Tartanson.

Later during the evening, the house he resided in was soon filled with the invited officers. Mattresses were taken from the home and spread out everywhere. Since there were not enough, many of them were shared. Napoléon had seen several used by three or four men each. The rest of the officers had taken up space on the stairs. An amusing sight to him.

Activity in the house had ceased with everyone asleep. In his room, Napoléon sat in his armchair, not feeling sleepy. He was content to sit in the chair and relax.

[1] l’Hérault would be arrested upon his arrival in Marseilles. Masséna claimed he did so to protect his friend from the royalists in the city.

[2] Barrême is put at an altitude of 722 meters above sea level in the mountain range.


	10. Paving the Way

_March 4 th, 1815_

Throughout the night and into the early morning hours, Napoléon had not slept at all but was not tired. According to his watch, it was 3:00 in the morning. “Ali.” He said in a normal tone. His valets were both in the drawing-room, sharing it with the officers sleeping there. There was no answer. “Ali.” His valet did not respond. “Ali!” His voice rose much higher, but not to the point of yelling. He heard some muttering coming from outside of his room. It sounded like his valet may have been sleeping and only woke up."Sire?” Ali finally responded to him, sounding tired.

“Tell Monsieur Marchand to get me a cup of coffee.”

“Yes, sire.” Ali walked away from the door. There was some soft indistinct talking in the drawing-room. Ali returned and told Napoléon that Marchand was getting to it in readying the coffee available in the house. “Is there anything else you need, sire?”

“No,” Napoléon replied. He simply stayed there in his seat, motionless as a statue. His waiting was awarded when the door was softly knocked on. Marchand had announced himself and was invited inside. The porcelain cup of coffee on a little, round silver plate was given to Napoléon. He felt good and warm after he took a sip.

“It snowed outside, sire,” Marchand revealed.

“Is it heavy?” Napoléon drank again.

“No, sire. It looks light on the ground.”

“Good. I hope the weather does not make things worse for us all.”

“I don’t think the snow will be a problem for us, sire,” Marchand replied as he shook his head a few times. “Luck has been on your side since we left Elba, sire.” The valet pointed out confidently. “I think it will still hold up.”

“Let’s hope my luck will last until we reach Paris.” Napoléon took a larger sip. “Thank you for the coffee. You can go back to sleep.”

“Yes, sire.” Marchand exited the room and softly closed the door.

When the time 5:00 in the morning. Napoléon took his breakfast of beef broth and two boiled eggs provided by the servants of this house. After he finished, he ordered his valets to tell everyone to get ready to leave. Soon afterward, many people outside his door were waking up, with lots of activity and commotion heard in nearby parts of the house. The entrance to his room opened again. Napoléon observed the officers were getting ready, putting on their clothes, and quickly eating their rations, mostly made up of bread and some bottled beverages. In the open doorway, both of his valets returned and asked for further instructions from him.

“Monsieur Marchand, bring me my map of France and the brass chart magnifier from the baggage, and send for Général Cambronne to meet with me.”

“Understood, Mon Empereur.” Marchand left him alone, shutting the door when he left.

Napoléon waited patiently in his chair. He closed his eyes to pass the time, being careful not to fall asleep, and kept his mind awake. After he waited for a while, not knowing how long, someone knocked on the door, making him open his eyelids.

“I’ve brought Général Cambronne and your items, sire,” Marchand said from the other side of the door.

“Come in.” Napoléon came up from his chair and stretched out his limbs after sitting for so many hours, almost motionless like a paralyzed invalid.

The door opened. Cambronne and Marchand came inside. His valet unfolded and settled the map of France and chart magnifier on the table. He stood by in the corner, waiting for more instructions since he was not dismissed. Napoléon gestured for his General to approach the table. Both he and Cambronne came and stood at the same side, with Napoléon turning the map in their direction.

He took the round magnifier and followed the names of every town and village he had gone through so far before he stopped at Barrême. The device was moved a little to the north, placed over the city of Digne. Napoléon looked up to his subordinate. “Général Cambronne, just like before, take your same advance guard and head for Digne. Here, this is how I want you to get there.” Cambronne leaned closer. Napoléon’s finger moved north-west from Barrême and stopped at one spot. It moved from one point to another while he gave his instructions. “This here is the commune of Chaudon-Norante. You will come across a fork in the path. Take the one on your right, and from there, you will come across the village of La Clappe after you’ve moved through the Col de Corobin passage. This path should lead you straight to Digne.” 

“I fully understand, sire.” Cambronne nodded. “When should I leave?”

“As soon as you can, preferably right now. I’ll follow you in an hour with the main force.” 

“It will be done, Mon Empereur.” Cambronne left the room, leaving him alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short chapter. The next one is much longer.


	11. Conspiracy

_March 4th, 1815_

Duval ran his fingers through his cropped auburn hair and relieved an itch on his scalp before opening the doubled brown wooden doors to the town hall. A meeting was to be held at precisely seven o'clock in the morning. He had arrived on time according to his silver pocket watch he held in his hand before slipping it back into its proper place in his brown tailcoat jacket. Inside, Dual was greeted by many notables and civil servants, including the Mayor. The brown cropped haired, square-jawed, local commander of the Basses-Alpes department's forces, Brigadier General Nicolas Loverdo, was present. The dignitaries and Loverdo took their seats in three deep rows when Duval stood in front of them for all to see him.

"Thank you for coming here, Messieurs." Duval addressed everyone present. "I assume that you have been aware for the past several hours, there have been rumors of Bonaparte's possible entry into Digne during this very day." Everyone worriedly murmured at once while many nodded in confirmation. It was all so sudden for Duval. The source came from a mail deliverer who arrived only mere hours ago from Barrême at around 4:00 in the morning. Duval had questioned him and found out he had seen Napoléon's troops, but he was not aware of their intentions. The deliverer's claim that Digne would be next for Napoléon was purely based on his speculation this would occur, nothing else. In the end, Duval considered it was a good possibility due to the close distance from Digne to Barrême. "I'll be honest here, Messieurs. Before we have heard of these rumors, I've received a letter from Le Préfet of the Vars department regarding Napoléon's presence in France only yesterday afternoon." 

"Monsieur le Préfet, then why haven't you shared this news with us immediately?" Mayor Gassendi Tartonne asked, with his fingers interlocked. 

"It was because I assumed that Bonaparte was too far away to be an immediate concern, that was the reason Monsieur le Maire. It's now clear that I am wrong." Duval's poor excuse seemed to have worked. He turned to the commander. "Général Loverdo, do you think we can stop Bonaparte and force him to avoid Digne if he intends to come here?" 

Loverdo stood from his chair. "I'm afraid that is impossible." Several gasps greeted his announcement from the other notables. "It was only just a week ago, you all are aware I've had to quell a mutiny from our immediate garrison of the 87e Régiment de Ligne. Fortunately, no blood was spilled. None of these men could be relied upon to make a stand against Napoléon since they are all completely sympathetic to him. I couldn't gather the rest of my troops from the other fortresses because it would take too long for them to arrive. I think Napoléon would come into Digne before reinforcements could." 

_This is excellent news._

Duval was pleased. Being a secret supporter of the Emperor, he must put on a royalist face of being against him to save his career as the Prefect and possibly his life. "So, you're telling me that this city is defenseless to Napoléon's possible entry?" It was quite likely, knowing there were only one hundred thirty-two soldiers in Digne. 

"I'm afraid that's the bitter truth," Loverdo disappointedly admitted. "I have no desire to take a chance in gambling on whether or not Bonaparte would come here. The only thing I could do is immediately take my tiny garrison of Digne out of here and move north to Sisteron. At least they would not augment Napoléon's forces. I am afraid I will not be able to hold off Bonaparte at Sisteron either. Even though it has a great citadel with guns overlooking a single bridge, there is a serious lack of gunpowder, so we cannot blow it up. From there, I will have to withdraw south to Valensole from Sisteron." Finished, the General sat down. 

_Things could not possibly get any better than this_. 

Duval was joyful while he displayed his false feeling of anxiety. The Mayor stood up in turn. "Monsieur le Préfet, not long before I came to this meeting, I've been greeted by a crowd of people from this city. They all demanded to be armed to put a halt to Bonaparte. They believed they could do so by blockading Napoléon's possible route in the narrow southern mountain path, leading to the Thermes de Digne. I told the people I would ask if you would grant permission." 

"That's not an option, Monsieur le Maire." Duval firmly objected.

"Hear! Hear!" One of the notables agreed. This sentiment was then voiced by everyone else in the room, all expressing their will not to resist. 

"As you can see, Monsieur le Maire, none of us want any bloodshed," Duval pointed out. "I will hold you responsible if you give arms to the populace against my orders. If Bonaparte arrives, we will allow him to pass through without any resistance. It would be futile and unnecessary." 

“As you wish, Monsieur le Préfet.” The Mayor sat down. 

Duval concluded the meeting. Everyone left their seats and went out through the main doubled doors. Duval departed last from the town hall. He went to the _Petit Paris_ inn to take his breakfast there. Duval took his meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, bread, and some ale to wash it down. 

While he ate, Duval dwelled on essential issues. He had deliberately never mentioned to the gathered officials that an hour before the meeting, an engineer from the Bridges and Highways Department had offered his service in damaging the roads to Digne to slow down Bonaparte. Duval refused the offer and told the engineer it was unnecessary and that everything would be resolved. 

If the Emperor arrived, Duval knew he could not openly greet him with friendliness. It would expose his true allegiances. Even if he formally welcomed the Emperor, that was bad enough. The populace would be given a reason to hate him. 

An idea came into mind. The officials of Digne would be gathered and given safety in his country house at Champtercer, only a little away from here. It would strengthen the appearance of his false loyalty to the King. 

_Yes, that would work out well, just fine._

Duval reasoned to himself. If they left Digne immediately, their image would be damaged, including his own, and make them look like cowards to the populace. They would be evacuated only when the Emperor was genuinely close to coming into the city. It would certainly make them seem brave to the people and left because it was hopeless. 

Duval departed from the inn and headed for a nearby wooden home in the eastern part of Digne in the Rue de la Mère de Dieu. He was confident his friend, Julien, would assist him. He knew Julien sympathized with the Emperor, being a former cavalry officer of the Imperial Guard. 

He came up to the door and knocked on it several times. Footsteps approached from the other side until they stopped. The door opened. Julien stood in the doorway, dressed in black trousers with brown bronze buckled shoes. Duval casually noticed that Julian's round face was clean-shaven, and it was only yesterday when he had a twirling dark brown mustache. 

"Hello, Julien." Duval greeted, smiling. 

"Hello to you as well, Duval." Julien stepped aside, "Would you like to come inside?"

Duval accepted the offer and went into the house. They both entered into the small, four-sided white-walled drawing-room with a brown wooden planked floor and twenty-foot high cement ceiling. It had only three simple chairs, a round table, and an inactive stone fireplace. They took their seats, facing each other. 

"I've heard there was a meeting in the town hall. What was going on?" Julien questioned curiously.

Duval explained everything that had transpired in the town hall. The floating rumors about Napoléon possibly coming to Digne made everyone nervous. General Loverdo decided to leave Digne for Sisteron, and take his mutinous troops away from Napoléon, who might enter into this city. Even Sisteron had to be abandoned due to lack of gunpowder there, and Loverdo would march south to Valensole. The Mayor had asked if the people would be armed to blockade Napoléon from coming into the town. Still, he had blocked the idea as it would likely invite disaster.

"If the Emperor truly intends to come here, it looks like the royalists are truly doomed in this city," Julien gloated.

"His impending arrival would help, but we do not know for sure. I would like to ask a big favor from you."

"What is it?" 

"You see, I would like you to ride out and report on Napoléon's advance, and see if he is coming. I wish to display my false allegiances to the King by inviting the notables of Digne to come and hide with me in my country house. If I stayed, the Emperor might wish to speak with me if he arrived, and this would reflect upon me quite poorly. I want to save my position as Préfet." 

Julien did not answer immediately. He thought about it for a moment while scratching his smooth face. "I suppose I could do this for you. You could spread the word that you have sent me to keep a watch on Bonaparte so that they know what is going on. You would not fall under any kind of suspicion of being a secret collaborator." 

Duval beamed up. "I greatly appreciate this from you, Julien." 

"There is only one minor issue. I am not on duty for today, and I dislike working for free. So, I would feel better if you would pay me a day's worth of my wages. Surely, you would understand." 

Duval understandably nodded. "Yes, I know I was asking for a big favor from you. I'll be happy enough to give you an award." He took out his drawstring coin purse tied to his belt and brought out four silvers, each worth a franc. Duval handed the money to Julien.

"This is far more than what I get paid in a day." 

"I'm giving you that much because of the big favor I'm asking of you. It's the least I could do. I would feel like I'm cheating you by paying only your single day worth of wages." 

"All right, that's fine. I'll take it since you've felt it was necessary." Julien pocketed the money. "I'll get ready right now." 

"When you're ready, go for the mountain pass which would lead to the village of La Clappe," Duval instructed. "I believe that is where Napoléon might emerge from." 

"I'll do just that. 

"Good." 

"There is just one problem. We haven't discussed how long I should be gone for."

"Take the entire day and return before midnight. I'll expect you to find me at the market square by that time. If you come across the Emperor's forces early in the day, meet me at my house. If I'm not there, then it's likely I'm in my office in the prefectural building."

"All right. I'll get to work." 

"Goodbye." Duval departed, with the door closed behind him. After he finished his business with Julien, Duval went around through many different streets, going to the houses owned by the civil servants of Digne. He spoke with each one and invited them to retreat to his other home in the countryside just before Napoléon should arrive in Digne. When a few asked why they have to wait and not leave immediately, Duval explained that it would make them look like cravens to the people. He added that the civilians would better understand why they left at the right time. He had explained to each of the officials that he had sent a Gendarme, named Julien, who would return soon enough to warn them of Napoléon's advance. Each time with every civil servant, Duval exaggerated what would likely occur upon them when Napoléon entered the city. Their lives could be at stake. They may end up getting executed as supporters of the King, and he reminded them of the terrors of the revolution twenty years ago. His trick worked without fail. Most of them readily agreed with his idea, some out of fear, but only two notables, and the Mayor declined. All three of them told him similarly that they were not scared of Napoléon. 

His task in persuading most of the civil servants of Digne to leave with him took up many hours of his time. It was nearly nine o'clock in the morning on his watch when he had left the last notable's house, Joseph Barbier, the general-secretary of the prefecture. Duval knew he needed to speak with the head of the Gendarmes with a new task in mind. The police commander would be ordered to send one of his men to keep an eye on the western road for the Emperor's possible approach and immediately report back to the city. 

Duval saw some people running by him in the cobbled street, seemingly in a great hurry for some reason. Duval randomly called out a young man who looked like he was aged in his twenties. "Monsieur, what's happening?" The fellow stopped. 

"A friend told me that an officer from the usurper is present in the market square. He is there right now, from what I've heard." The young man returned to running. Duval followed. 

He passed through several more streets and felt the side of his stomach starting to hurt him from his running while he followed the man who told him what was going on. The pain slowed him down to a walk. Along the way in the first couple of streets, the youthful fellow had shouted to many people that Napoléon's messenger was in the market square. Those civilians stopped what they were doing and headed for that specific area of Digne. Many sauntered like he did while others, who were younger, ran. Duval reached the end of one street and turned the corner. He entered another avenue, but it was shorter and closer to his destination. He came into the market square, where scores of outdoor markets and shops were left vacant. A large crowd was gathered in the middle of the large opening. 

Duval aimed for that crowd of people with their backs turned to him. He reached the cluster of civilians and gently pushed his way through. He pointed out to everyone in his way he was the Prefect of Digne to get through more efficiently. It helped him out. After he moved past a man and then a woman, he reached the middle. The crowd was surrounding two men in the center. The wig-wearing, portly Mayor, Gassendi Tartonne, was talking with a cavalryman. The latter was dressed in his uniform, made up of a blue jacket with red lapels, blue trousers with a single red stripe, and a square toped hat on his head with a white plume. He was armed with a lance held upright with the iron tip pointing to the sky.

"…Well, Monsieur le Maire, I expect you to fulfill that quota before the main force arrives. The advance guard will be here very soon." The horseman spoke in French with an accent he never heard before. It was thick and most undoubtedly foreign. 

"Fine, I will do it." The Mayor reluctantly agreed to whatever was discussed. The horseman turned his horse and trotted east out of the market square. 

Duval approached the Mayor. "What was going on, Monsieur le Maire?"

"That Pole came here and laid out his demands on behalf of the usurper. He wanted us to supply Bonaparte with five-thousand rations in meat, bread, and wine. The foreigner also told us the Corsican would be here in likely a few hours." 

"I see, now." 

"I wonder what happened to that Gendarme you've sent out to report on Bonaparte's advance. You told me he was sent into that mountain pass, correct?"

"Yes, that's true. I have sent the Gendarme into that mountain pass where the town of La Clappe would be located. It was where many of us expected Napoléon might make his appearance. Did this Pole emerge from that path?"

"Yes. The foreigner rode in here, preceding his advance guard coming from that exact path in the mountains. I seriously cannot help but wonder if the Gendarme had encountered this same Polish rider who came into Digne. If so, then why didn't he stop him?" 

Duval slightly frowned at the Mayor. "I do not like what you are implying, Monsieur le Maire. The Gendarme I have sent can be trusted to do his duty. By questioning the Gendarme's loyalty, you are also questioning mine in extension." His soft rebuke was enough to make the Mayor look regretful. 

“I have never doubted your loyalty, Monsieur le Préfet.”

"Then you trust my judgment?"

"Yes, I do."

Duval was glad he prevented the Mayor before he asked any more uncomfortable questions. "Good. The Gendarme told me he would report on Napoléon's advance, and I will take his word for it. He will return soon enough and give us the news." 

"Since you are the Le Préfet, should we prepare those rations?" 

"Yes. It would be better to do as we are told, lest we risk the Corsican Ogre's wrath." The Mayor's eyes widened fearfully. "I will let you take care of this, Monsieur le Maire. I must return to my house when the Gendarme arrives with his report, as he will expect my presence there." 

“I understand, Monsieur le Préfet.”

Duval walked away. He heard the Mayor calling to the crowd of people clustered around and instructed them to accumulate the five-thousand rations of meat, bread, and wine and have them collected here in the market square. There were some protests, but they were silenced when the Mayor pointed out that the usurper would be angry if they did not satisfy his demands. That was enough to get the people working immediately. 

Duval left the market square, passed through three streets, and returned to his home. He was sure if Julien had indeed met that Polish lancer, he should be coming back at this moment. He considered it was possible they simply passed by without actually seeing each other somehow. 

At around eleven o'clock, someone knocked on his door. Duval answered it, and there stood Julien, dressed only in his black riding clothes and not wearing his blue uniform. Duval invited him inside. 

"So, have you seen Napoléon coming?" Duval asked. 

"I've come across the advance guard. I had spoken with the Emperor's General, named Cambronne. I told him about the reason I was in the mountain path, and I also informed him about the situation of Digne, including topics that have been discussed in the town hall. When I asked the General how far away was the Emperor, he told me that His Majesty was only an hour behind the vanguard. Cambronne's troops, I would estimate, are only a few miles away right now." 

"I see. Have you crossed paths with a lonely Polish horseman by chance?"

"Yes, I have. I greeted the lancer as a comrade of the Garde Impériale, as I knew what kind of soldier he was. It was from him I first learned he was preceding the advance guard and what he was assigned to do. We had spoken with each other, though it was difficult for me to understand his accent. Did he come into Digne?"

"Yes, he did. He laid out his demand of rations for the Emperor. I was questioned by Le Maire, who spoke with the Pole. We talked, and he wondered if you had met the Polish horseman since you took the same path as he did, and thought that if it were true, why did you not stop him. I quickly assured him that you were loyal and would report on Napoléon's advance. It prevented him from asking uncomfortable questions." 

"It's a good thing you stopped him quickly. Logic likely would have made him conclude I was defecting, and he would not be wrong in a way, but I returned." 

"I'm glad he is not a critical thinker," Duval said. "I'm curious, why didn't you return to me upon meeting that Pole?"

"That Pole was only a lonely man. He alone could not take Digne for the Emperor. I wanted to meet with the advance guard and speak with Cambronne. Plus, I knew I could outpace the General's troops quite easily and report back to you." 

"I see. Well, it is time for me to take the notables with me to my country house. We have waited long enough. Meanwhile, I would like you to tell Le Maire I am leaving as planned and have him inform the people why we are leaving, and get him try to make it sound like we left because it was necessary and not because we don't care about the people of Digne." 

"I'll do that. I will come by to your country home and let you know when Napoléon has left Digne." 

"Good. Well then, take care." Duval took his leave, getting out of the market square. 


	12. All or Nothing

_March 4 th, 1815_

On his watch, it was nearly noon. Napoléon put it away in his pocket. He reached the eastern part of Digne first, riding at his column's head with his staff and valets put around and behind him.

The city's name reminded him that Pauline had once told him she visited Digne because of its famous baths heated by its own naturally warm temperatures at around 42 Celsius. He was curious if the owners of those bathhouses were proud that they catered to his sister.

_If that is true, then Digne would remember my visit today regardless of how they feel towards me._

The mountain dirt road turned into a grey stone-paved street as he entered into the urban environment. He had been joined by two mounted Polish lancer sentries that were stationed just barely outside of the easternmost part of Digne. They led the way to the market square, where one of them told him the food supplies were being gathered for the army.

The avenue became narrower during the ride, to the point that everyone on a horse had to ride single-file after him. Napoléon was sure that if he had stretched out both arms to the sides, he could touch the buildings' walls at both ends.[1] He encountered dozens of civilians in this very street, and none got in the way. Most simply stood to the side, looking at him. Some with curiosity, others with thinly veiled hostility, and the rest viewed him with seeming indifference.

“How far away is the market square?” He asked either of the two Poles preceding him. The one on the right turned. 

“It is not far. We will be there very soon, sire.” His answer was enough for Napoléon. 

He reached the end of this street and turned, coming into a new one. More people saw him, numbering only in the single digits. Some went immediately back in their houses upon seeing him when a few civilians loudly pointed out his presence in fear. Napoléon believed that his widely known attire was the only thing that gave him away, not his face.

More streets were passed through until finally, they came into a wide opening in Digne. The Pole on the right pointed out that they had reached the market square. Napoléon noted there were hardly any people present. The markets and shops were closed. Only his Poles made up of either mounted or dismounted lancers were there, guarding a great pile of neatly organized crates in the middle of the great city square. He saw Cambronne coming in his direction, moving away from the collected supplies. There were three children, two brown-haired boys and a red-headed girl, standing idly to the market square's southern side. They were staring at his marching troops.

Riding beside his right, General Bertrand tossed several gold pieces to the children. They hurried and collected the money from the stone ground. “The Emperor is here,” Bertrand declared to the children. “Shout Vive L’Empereur!” He encouraged.

The children shouted those words of _Vive L’Empereur!_ This was countered by someone from a nearby window, who cried out, “Vive le Roi!” before shutting it closed.

Time and time again, cold unfriendliness was his usual greeting from the people everywhere he visited so far. That cold fact made Napoléon start doubting himself for the first time since his landing on French soil.

_Could it be I miscalculated the people’s reaction?_

He turned to Bertrand. “Can it be we’ve been fooling ourselves?”

“We are still deep in Southern France, Mon Empereur.”

Napoléon did not reply to that. He had expected such reactions from these people in the royalist south. Witnessing their cold and indifferent responses from the people in this territory made him question if he would experience the same kind of attitude further north, where he figured he would gain more significant support. His informants gave him information regarding the French army and the people’s hostile attitude toward the Bourbons. Despite these antagonistic feelings, that did not guarantee the French populace in the heartland would welcome him back. The calculations based on his informants' consistent reports was in the end, his speculation, yet to become either true or false. Even in his moment of uncertainty, a definite conclusion was, however, to be made. He could only genuinely know firsthand upon observing the people and soldiers' reaction further north for himself.

_I have yet to find out in the end._

Only time would determine if the nation would overwhelmingly welcome him back home. His doubts would not make things better or worse. Turning back was impossible.

_Either I win or fail._

“Tell the troops to collect their rations.” He instructed his General.

“Yes, sire.” Bertrand rode on back, calling the troops to halt, and ordered them to disperse to obtain their rations. The troops broke away from the column and heading for the gathered supplies, but not like an undisciplined mob. They did so in an orderly manner. Bertrand returned and came upon his right.

Napoléon dismissed the two Poles before him, and they left his presence. Cambronne arrived, stopping his horse in front of him. “Sire, I’ve quite a bit of news I need to share with you.”

“I’m listening.” Napoléon interestingly paid attention to Cambronne, relaying everything to him in detail. His source came from a Gendarme named Julien, a former soldier of the Imperial Guard, who in turn had been informed by the Prefect of all the activity in Digne. The officials had heard rumors of his possible advance toward Digne. Resistance was impossible as General Loverdo, the local commander, retreated north to Sisteron with his garrison of one hundred thirty-two men because his troops proved to be unreliable from a recently quelled mutiny. There were even plans that Loverdo intended to abandon Sisteron in turn, due to lack of powder there to blow up the bridge, and he would leave for Valensole. The Mayor had proposed to arm the people of Digne and blockade the mountain passage where they believed he would emerge from with his force. Still, the Prefect rejected the idea as it would likely invite serious problems. It was a sentiment every notable shared with the Prefect. Cambronne then mentioned a conspiracy involving the Gendarme and the Prefect, and that now, at this moment, the latter had certainly taken with him most of the notables to his country house. Only the Mayor and two other officials stayed behind. That move was made as a way for the Prefect to display his fake loyalty to the King.

“That is a fascinating story,” Napoléon amusingly remarked. “Where is this Gendarme, Julien?” He had always taken pride in remembering the numerous names of fellow soldiers, but he had never heard of Julien.

“He never told me where he lived, sire.”

“Pity, I would like to thank him personally for what he did.” Napoléon changed the subject. “Is there a place where I could rest?”

“There is this place called the _Petit Paris_ Inn, sire. It’s located at the end of the Rue du Jeu-de-Paume.”

“That would do, but I won’t stay there for the night.”

Cambronne nodded. “Which next place will you be staying for the night, sire?”

“I will be spending the rest of the day in Malijai.” Napoléon answered, remembering that was the next nearby town. “But that is not the most important issue, though. You will be taking my advance guard to Sisteron on a forced march and seize control over it. I understand that Général Loverdo was heading there, but that does not mean he will not try to destroy the bridge leading to Sisteron by some other creative method. I want you to head for Sisteron and capture it as quickly as possible, and do not give Général Loverdo any time to even think of a solution in trying to delay us in any way. I want Sisteron secured for my passage northward.” 

“I’ll make sure that bridge is intact by the time you arrive, sire. I will be waiting for you there tomorrow.”

“Good.” Napoléon said. “Instead of taking the Poles, gather forty Chasseurs _-_ à-Pied from my Vieille Garde.”

“Yes, sire.”

“Before you get ready to leave, show me this inn you mentioned.”

“It is this way, sire.” Cambronne took the lead, riding for the south-western part of the market square.

“Général Drouot, Monsieur Ali,” Napoléon called up. Drouot and Ali came out from behind him rode up to his left. “Monsieur Ali, take a copy of each of my two proclamations from the baggage, find a printing press here, and make more copies, for we will be leaving Digne at three o’clock.”

“Yes, sire.” Ali turned and rode on back.

“As for you Général Drouot, I assume you’ve already heard everything Général Cambronne had told me?”

“Yes, sire. Every word.”

“Send a message to Général Loverdo, assuming he hasn’t left Sisteron by now, and try to persuade him to join us. If there is a semaphore station in Digne, use it.”

“I understand, sire.” Drouot, too, rode away.

“Général Bertrand.”

“Yes, sire?”

“Instruct Monsieur Peyrusse to replace his mules with wagons now that we will no longer need them as these mountains will be left behind us very soon.”

“It will be done, sire.”

Cambronne led him to the _Petit Paris_ inn, where the General took his leave. Napoléon and Marchand dismounted and tied their horses to the wooden hitching posts. There were a few people already present inside the brown wooden inn, and they ignored his presence. Napoléon took his lunch of cheese, bread, and some chicken. He left out his pocket watch on the table and kept an eye on the time. After he was done, he sent Marchand to find the Mayor of Digne. It did not take long, only about ten minutes when his valet returned with the Mayor. The latter formally introduced himself as Gassendi Tartonne.

“Please, take a seat, Monsieur le Maire.” Napoléon invited. The portly Mayor stiffly took the chair. “Monsieur le Maire, I would like to discuss the payment I owe to this town in exchange for the rations gathered in the market square.” The public servant raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

“Coincidentally, sire, I was going to bring up the same topic.” The Mayor pulled out a small folded piece of white paper from his pocket and opened it. “I oversaw collecting the rations needed for Your Majesty’s army. I also had to include the total expenses for the bread, meat, and wine.” He slid the report across the table.

“I find it interesting you assumed I would be willing to pay for all this. I have the power not to give you anything at all.”

“That is true, but I am sure Your Majesty would never resort to acting like a common thief.”

_You have no idea, do you?_

Napoléon took the bill and skimmed over everything listed, looking at the total at the bottom. “So, you’re owed one-thousand-two francs?” 

“Yes, sire.”

He returned the bill to the Mayor. “Then settle this with my treasurer. His name is Guillaume Peyrusse. He is coming up behind my troops' rear and will be in Digne soon during the day, I think. You can get the money from him.”

The Mayor had an uncertain expression. “Thank you, sire, but how do I know it is him?”

“He will be coming into Digne with a train of mules, carrying my treasury and baggage. Ask any of one of my civilian staff accompanying the mules, and they will point you to Monsieur Peyrusse.”

“I understand, sire.”

“I will also be replacing the mules carrying my treasury with wagons. Again, the expenses in buying the transportation will be covered by my treasurer.”

“I guess that is acceptable. I thank you for your time, sire. May I leave with your permission?” A nod from Napoléon was given, and the Mayor gracefully took his leave from the inn. 

Napoléon later summoned another person he knew who lived here, but it was not who he expected. He had hoped it was Colonel Desmichels, the hero who once captured six-hundred Austrian soldiers with only several dozen men from the 31st Chasseurs à-Cheval. That feat was achieved during the campaign of 1805. The person who arrived instead was the wife, a pretty, blonde woman with freckles. He had a friendly discussion with her. Napoléon learned from the spouse that the Colonel was away from Digne. He questioned her regarding the opinion of him farther north of Digne. She answered that he would likely find more substantial support for him among the population there. The conversation was finished, and farewells were made.

Three more people were summoned, one after the other, including the two notables that stayed behind. At the minimum, the talk was polite with those two civil servants. Their manners were quite formal, making it clear they did not like him. The third person was an elderly civilian man Marchand had chosen from the street. The conversation was decent and casual. His last three exchanges were done, hoping that it would improve his image in Digne by portraying himself as friendly, not as the monster his opponents described him. In the end, Napoléon doubted it was successful in changing minds.

General Bertrand came in the inn and informed him that Peyrusse had gone back to the mountain pass, but not far away, to retrieve funds worth two-hundred thousand francs, from one of the dead mules that had fallen to its death over a cliff. The rest of the treasury had been given to Bertrand before the treasurer and some of the Elba civilian staff searched for the missing money in the exact spot where the mule had died. With the gold immediately at hand, Napoléon instructed Bertrand to pay the hired muleteers for their service, along with the bill of one-thousand-two francs to the Mayor for the rations and wine, and the additional expenses in purchasing the necessary wagons for the gold and baggage. “Afterwards, make sure that Messieurs L’Hérault and **Émery** receive nineteen-hundred francs each. **The former** will leave for Marseilles to hopefully persuade Maréchal Massena there to join me, and the latter shall make his way for Grenoble to help pave my eventual arrival into that city.”

“I understand, sire.” Bertrand then took his leave.

At a quarter before three, Ali arrived and reported to him that two-hundred copies had been printed. It was not enough to Napoléon. He ordered Ali to tell General Drouot to temporarily stay behind in Digne, with some men to make sure that twice as many copies would be made. Drouot can follow him to Malijai after the task was done. Through Marchand, Napoléon issued a new set of orders to the troops, including instructions to leave for Malijai and how exactly it would proceed. When Ali returned, he was again told to have Bertrand command Peyrusse and his people to cease searching for the missing gold and follow the army to Malijai.

When the time had hit three o’clock, Napoléon put away his pocket watch and came out of the door, leaving the inn. Marchand and Ali were there, waiting for him, mounted, with the latter holding the reins of Taurus. Napoléon came up and mounted upon the saddle.

His troops in the market square had been organized as such into three groups as instructed. He noted that the march through the mountains for many days had born little semblance to order. The troops looked more like an armed mob rather than a disciplined force. Now, it was much more to his liking. He examined each contingent in detail, making sure it was done the right way.

The first one was composed of three one-hundred strong companies of the Old Guard Chasseurs, the entire Polish cavalry, and twenty-one Sailors of the Guard. Colonel Mallet commanded them. The second group solely consisted of the three companies of Old Guard Grenadiers, led by Captain Loubers. Each company was nearly one-hundred strong, divided evenly as possible due to the capture of twenty-one men at Antibes. The last cluster would become the rear. It was made up of the Corsican volunteers, Old Guard artillerymen, Corsican Gendarmes, and the insignificant number of individual soldiers that defected to him along the way since his landing in France. His household and the treasury now loaded up on four wagons, pulled by two team horses, and with his entire civilian staff operating them were part of the final group of gathered troops. Everything looked organized to him.

“Monsieur Marchand, tell Colonel Mallet to take the lead as planned.” Napoléon’s valet trotted to the first group. Within minutes, the first group commenced their march out of the market square and into the western parts of Digne, where they would march for Malijai. The Poles were the first to leave, followed by the infantry and sailors. The first group soon had departed, with the last of the sailors leaving the square. The second group expectedly followed in turn. The Old Guard Grenadiers advanced, taking the same street used by the first group, and departed from the market square. When the second contingent was gone, Napoléon, accompanied by Bertrand and his valets, took the last contingent's lead and followed the second group.

He waved farewell to the people gathered in the market square, watching him leave. None of them returned his gesture, only cold silence. Even though he had grown accustomed to this kind of attitude since returning to France, he hungered for some warm, enthusiastic welcomes.

_Would I ever see it when we move farther north?_

Just because the people developed a widespread dislike for the Bourbons, that did not mean he would be welcomed back as their Emperor. That fear occupied Napoléon’s thoughts, and it was far too late to turn around. He could only win or lose.

_Losing will most definitely break me if I fail._

After Napoléon had gone through multiple streets, following the rear of the second contingent of troops, he emerged out of the western side of Digne. The terrain became flatter, but it was still mountainous. He was glad the road leading west was much lower than the paths he took in the higher elevated landscape during the past several days. It was much warmer as well, now that he was no longer moving up toward the heavens in the mountains. 

The afternoon was about to surrender to evening. The western road being used bent slightly up northward, but it was still facing westward. The road signs let Napoléon know he was getting closer to Malijai. The last one he passed by had displayed he was only four miles away from his destination.

The evening became dominant, and the sun had gone down. It was six o’clock on his watch. Napoléon saw Malijai in the distance from his high spot on the saddle. The town was around a quarter-mile away. The first and second contingents had already arrived and bivouacked outside of the eastern entrance of the municipality. 

In turn, Napoléon had arrived outside of Malijai and joined his troops there. He was approached by an official who introduced himself as the Mayor. The civil servant was an older man, who Napoléon guessed he likely aged in his fifties or sixties. He was attired in a double-fed black coat, a white wig, brown breeches, and a few warts dotted his chin.

“Sire, I’ve been told you would arrive very soon by your General who came here hours ago.” The Mayor coldly told him. “Your residence had been established in the Château de Malijai.”

“Monsieur le Maire, you can lead me to it.”

The Mayor guided him through the dirt streets of Malijai. Many of the civilians he encountered here were just as unfriendly as the people in Digne. After he had ridden through several avenues, Napoléon reached this chateau. It was a large, white rectangular building, with a sloped brown roof and dozens of windows in three rows. Each row of windows represented a floor. 

“Who is the owner of this place?” He asked of the Mayor.

“His name is Edouard Noguier, sire.”

“Is he at home?”

“Yes. He recently came back from hunting?”

“Good. You may leave me now, Monsieur le Maire.” The civil servant left him there in front of the building.

Napoléon gave the reins of Taurus to Ali before he dismounted. His horse was taken away wordlessly to any local stable. Marchand followed Ali after Bertrand gave the former his horse. The General accompanied Napoléon to the front door of the chateau. He knocked on the door several times. Within a minute, footsteps were coming from the inside. It stopped, and then the door was being unlocked. There stood a young brown-haired man with green eyes who looked like he was aged in his thirties in the doorway. He was dressed in what seemed like outdoor clothes, wearing a brown leather coat with lapels and the same colored pants made from the same material. His feet wore buckled shoes. “Hello Monsieur, are you the master of the house?” Napoléon questioned.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you live here alone?”

“No, sir. I have a few children and a wife living here.”

“I see. Well, I cause you a disturbance, you will have some work. I know my subordinate came here to your home.”

Noguier stiffly nodded and stepped to the side of the doorway. Before Napoléon entered, he instructed Bertrand to invite the officers of his army into the chateau to stay for the night. The door closed, and he was shown to his room, located on the first floor. They went through the kitchen, then the drawing-room, and into a long hallway where there were perhaps a dozen rooms facing the left side. Napoléon was given the very first one and went inside that room. It was small but had everything one needed to be comfortable. There was a four-poster bed with white curtains, a green cushioned armchair, a round table with two chairs, a lavatory, and even a wardrobe. The last piece of furniture was something new he had not seen before out of all the previous times he had stayed overnight before moving on to the next town.

_But of course, a chateau is far more extravagant than any inn or tavern in France._

“Do you like this room, sir?”

“It’s quite suitable enough, Monsieur.” Napoléon satisfactorily answered as he turned to the owner of the house. “When is the most appropriate time for dinner?” Napoléon knew he could just demand it since he was in control. Still, politeness was preferred to make the host feel a little comfortable with his temporary presence.

“I normally take dinner at around 8:00 in the evening with my family, sir.”

“Then we can take the meal at that time, Monsieur.”

“I’ll make sure it gets started, sir.” Noguier took his leave from the doorway.

A little later during the evening, the chateau became bustling and noisy. Many of his officers arrived. The rooms in the chateau were taken up. His valets had returned to him after the horses were put in a stable and guarded by several men from the Old Guard Grenadiers.

When it was time to take his supper, he went to the dining room situated next to the kitchen. Ali was ordered to stay behind to guard his room from being taken up unknowingly by one of the officers in the chateau. Only Marchand accompanied him there, but not as a participant, only to wait on him for further orders.

Roasted beef was served along with a whole single loaf of fresh brown bread and a wooden bowl of grapes. There was even a wooden bowl of almond nuts available. Napoléon took a small amount to be polite. It was hard to resist since he loved eating almonds. The wine was served for the adults while Noguier’s two young sons who drank milk. During this meal Napoléon asked the host if he would accept compensation for the expenses of his stay and that of the officers. Noguier simply refused, telling him that he was not an innkeeper and did not keep an account for such things.

When the dinner was done and the dishes were taken care of by the house servants, Napoléon returned to his room, dismissed his valets for the night, and sat down on the armchair. Sleep soon took over his eyes.

[1] Napoléon had historically entered into the Rue de la Mère de Dieu of Digne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next several chapters will be pretty interesting, that's when things are going to get awfully tense, just like what happened in reality.


	13. The Response

_March 5 th, 1815_

Baron Eugène François d'Arnauld hurried to meet the King. The sealed telegraphic letter held between his two gloved hands was strictly meant for the King to open and read. Eugène did not know what kind of contents were in the letter itself, but he had a strong feeling it brought unpleasant news to the King.

He dwelled on the odd past circumstances that brought the paper to his hands. The brother of the late Claude Chappe, responsible for inventing the ingenious semaphore telegraph system, had given him that document. He had asked of Chappe if he was privy of the letter’s contents inside. Still, the younger brother responded that he was not knowledgeable. It was only restricted to the ‘translator’ who oversaw the information. Eugène knew that he was lying because of his flustered, unsettled manner. Still, the issue was not pressed any farther, and he had immediately headed off to see His Majesty.

_Maybe something happened to the Duke and Duchess of Angoulême._

Eugène anxiously speculated. He was aware they were away in Bordeaux, celebrating the first anniversary of their arrival in France. Perhaps there was an unfortunate accident that involved the niece and nephew of the King? He shivered at the prospect. 

The hallway he strode through was lined up by a dozen members of the Hundred Swiss, performing their duty in guarding the interior of the Palais des Tuileries. They were colorfully attired in black tricorne hats with three feathers, two white and one black, sticking out from the top. A white cockade pinned the top part of the front side of the headdress. A white layered ruff was worn around the neck. Their baggy uniform was stripped in a red and blue pattern with white lines with thick red crosses separating the two colors. A white leather sash wrapped the waist with thick red crosses and a golden emblem, with a crown on top of three fleurs-de-lys organized in an upside-down triangular manner. Their primary weapon was a long twin-bladed halberd, and a sheathed sword was a secondary choice. Their white stockings covered the bottom half of their legs, and the footwear was made up of black low-heeled shoes.

Eugène headed to the end of the hall leading to the King’s study. It was protected by a member of the Gate Guards, the kind of guard assigned to guarding the palace's entries. The soldier was armed with a musket with a fixed bayonet. His secondary weapon was a sheathed, long, thin thrusting sword with a yellow pommel connected by a curved knuckle bow. The uniform was lavish as part of regulations. It was made up of a black cocked hat with a tall white plume attached to the front side. He was arrayed in a dark blue-tailed jacket with red cuffs and lapels. Two vertical sets of six rows of braids, mixed with red and silver lace, were embroidered equally on the left and right sides of the jacket’s front side. A leather shoulder sash worn from the left was done in checkered yellow and white embroidered squares of equal size and shape. Epaulets were on the shoulders, the left had full yellow fringes, and the right one was flat. His long white trousers were tucked beneath knee-high black boots.

The guard respectfully stopped him by raising his hand, and Eugène asked to speak with the King. The Guard knocked on the door several times. “Who is at the door?” His Majesty asked from inside of the room in his old, aging voice. 

“It is Le Baron de Vitrolles.” The Guard answered.

Eugène nervously rubbed the letter in his thin white-gloved hands. “I have an important letter. I think it is of great dire importance, and it requires your immediate attention, sire.”

“Come in and let me see it. The door is unlocked.” The King nonchalantly invited.

Eugène opened the door and closed it after he entered the room. He was greeted by the warm heat of the active iron fireplace trapped in the study. Much of the furniture, draperies, and carpets carried the yellow fleur-de-lys. Seeing the King’s symbol everywhere reminded him of when this same room was polluted by the embroidered yellow bees-the sign of the usurper.

Bonaparte’s honey bee was once seen everywhere in the Palais des Tuileries. There was plenty of money for a total redecoration. However, Artois told him that it was considered a low priority in budget spending. Fortunately, that disgusting imperial symbol on all the furniture, carpets, and draperies was done away with due to a much cheaper method. The honey bee was simply plastered over with the fleur-de-lys through the combined use of paint and embroidery. The brown study desk, a small bookcase next to it, and a large wooden cushioned armchair were the only pieces of furniture untainted by the usurper's symbols. 

Eugène approached the King, who laid flat on his large crimson red couch, with only his head supported by a sizeable white pillow and tilted a little down toward the chest. He saw the elderly, hook-nosed First Valet, Baron Francois Hüe, who stood by in the corner of the room, waiting to fulfill His Majesty’s needs immediately. He was attired in his closed single-breasted jacket with red cuffs, white breeches, stockings, and gold buckled shoes.

A long rectangular table with four gilded chairs was situated parallel to the couch by a few feet, close enough for His Majesty to conduct his business and eat meals. The King wore an ankle-length closed white robe with the fleur-de-lys embroidered everywhere. The feet were wrapped in white sheepskin. His Majesty was busy reading a small brown covered book resting upright on top of a little white pillow settled on his chest and held it lightly by the fingertips with his left hand. At the same time, he turned the pages with his right hand. It was undoubtedly the King’s best method in dealing with gout in his fingers from both hands while enjoying one of his hobbies.

Every time Eugène observed the King, he only felt pity for his sovereign in his unhealthy state of obesity. He knew His Majesty suffered severely, being unable to make it to his bedroom. Hence, an iron-framed four-poster bed with green curtains was installed in the study’s corner. “I have the letter here, sire.”

“Monsieur le Baron Hüe, take my book.” The First Valet came by and took the book from the King’s hands, revealing His Majesty’s round, fat, clean-shaven face. The nose was arched like the beak of a bird, and his large chin bulged outward.

Eugène came around and handed the letter to him. After a few minutes passed, the King finally and clumsily broke the seal with his gouty hands. His Majesty tried his best to extract the letter from the white envelope, but he failed in the attempt. The King then held it out to Eugène to do it for him. He did just that and gave the message back to the King for him to read. Eugène took the empty envelope, approached the active fireplace, and tossed it into the dancing flames before he returned and stood beside the King. His Majesty seemed to be taking his time in reading the contents of the letter in hand. When the King was finished, he casually threw the piece of paper on the table.

“Do you know what the letter was about?” The King questioned Eugène, without even turning his head to look at him.

“No, sire, I’ve no idea.” Eugène hoped there was nothing serious to be worried about from the letter’s contents. 

“What it is, it’s Bonaparte, who’s landed on the coast of Provence,” Louis casually revealed in the same tone.

The news deeply unsettled Eugène. He noted that the King did not sound worried about the information that Napoléon had invaded his kingdom. Eugène picked up the paper from the table. According to the date, the dispatch was forwarded from Marseilles two days ago by Marshal André Masséna, who oversaw that military district.

Eugène started reading the contents of the paper. It explained that Marshal Masséna had learned about Napoléon’s landing from the commander of the garrison of Antibes, Colonel d’Ornano. The garrison commander had imprisoned twenty of Napoléon’s Old Guard Grenadiers when they attempted to order the local troops to align themselves with the invader. After the prisoners were interrogated, it was concluded Bonaparte had landed on March 1st. In the last sentences, Masséna wrote that Napoléon was likely going northward since there was no reported movement of imperial troops marching westward through former Provence or to the east, leading directly to Italy.

“This dispatch must be passed on to the Ministre de la Guerre. He’ll see what’s to be done.” The King calmly stated.

“At once, sire. I will personally see to it that Maréchal Soult receives it from me.”

“Inform him that he has my permission to take whatever military measures he sees fit regarding Bonaparte’s intrusion into my kingdom.”

“I will tell him as much. I wish you a good day, Your Majesty.” He bowed, and then he left the room, taking the dispatch with him. 

Eugène found a palace servant and instructed him to order a coachman and a driver from the royal stables to meet him outside in front of the Jardin des Tuileries. The carriage arrived, and Eugène went inside. He told the driver to head to the Rue de l’Université, where the Minister of War’s home was located and knew he did not work on Sundays. The southern grilled gate was opened for his carriage by two National Guard members. He immediately made it to the Pont Royal built over La Seine.

The bridge was quite crowded, much to his annoyance. He was pleasantly surprised when he spotted the wavy-haired, oval-faced Marshal Soult, carrying with him his usual dourness. He was attired in a black buttoned-up tailcoat, white breeches, and a top hat. He was strolling across the stone bridge from the opposite side, walking along the parapet. Eugène loudly told his driver to stop, and the carriage halted. He stuck his head out and called for the Minister of War, quickly obtaining his attention.

Marshal Soult approached the carriage, and when he was close enough, Eugène greeted him. “Good day to you, Ministre de la Guerre.”

“Hello, Monsieur le Baron.” Soult’s manner was typically indifferent as expected, having known him for the past year.

“If I may ask, what is your current business, seeing that you’re outside? I know you do not work during this day of the week.”

“I was going to attend a meeting with the other departmental ministers at Monsieur de Blacas’s apartment.”

“I have something essential you need to read.” Eugène extended his arm out of the open window with the critical dispatch in hand. “This is the reason why I came here to meet up with you, Monsieur le Maréchal.” Soult took the message from him and opened it up before he began to read it. Eugène took notice of the change of his emotions displayed on his face. Soult’s eyes slightly widened but appeared calm overall.

“Are you sure this is authentic, Monsieur le Baron?” He inquired, still wholly focused on the letter. 

Eugène thought that was a stupid question, and he briefly closed his eyes in irritation. “Of course, it is real, Monsieur le Maréchal. It’s believed that Bonaparte is marching north into France even as we speak. His Majesty wanted me to tell you that you may take whatever military measures are necessary to deal with Bonaparte.” 

Marshal Soult looked up from the paper he held and then slipped the dispatch into his coat's outer pocket. “I will, but first, I must see His Majesty immediately.”

“I can take you there, right now. Come on in.” He opened the door and moved to the other side. He gave enough room for Soult to be seated next to him when he entered the carriage. The Marshal closed the door, and Eugène ordered his coachman to take them back to the Palais des Tuileries. The carriage turned around, temporarily putting a halt to the bridge's traffic, and took the same route, which led back to the palace. It took many long minutes before the coach made it to the other side of the crowded bridge. They entered the southern grilled gate and then came to the Tuileries' front. The vehicle stopped on the street between the Jardin des Tuileries and the palace itself. The driver opened the door.

As soon as Eugène and Soult stepped out of the carriage, the coachman drove away. They entered through the finely carved wooden doors of the Palais des Tuileries. Eugène led the way, and Soult followed him. After they had climbed up several flights of stairs, they strode down through the hallway which led directly to His Majesty’s study. Eugène was sure the King was still present since His Majesty spent most of his time and days in there due to his gout. When he made it to the door, the Guard there knocked on it several times on their behalf. 

“Yes?” His Majesty questioned.

“I’ve returned with the Ministre de la Guerre, sire,” Eugène said. “With your permission, he wanted to have an audience with you, sire.” 

“He may come inside, Monsieur le Baron.”

Eugène opened the door and entered inside. The King was still reading his book in the same spot and manner as before on the couch. The First Valet was always in attendance, standing idly in the corner of the study. It seemed like to Eugène the King behaved as if he had never even heard of the dreadful news of Bonaparte’s return. He seemed too relaxed and passive, especially in a time like this.

“The both of you may take a seat at my table.” His Majesty offered without turning away from his reading. Eugène and Soult sat next to each other, directly facing the King. “Do you like your occupation as the new Ministre de la Guerre?” His Majesty did not spare a glance at Soult when he asked the question. His royal eyes were still focused with his book at hand. 

“I enjoy my occupation, sire,” Soult apathetically replied. “The work has kept me constantly busy throughout the day.” 

“That is very good.” His Majesty turned the page in his book, “Such a high position requires a very diligent man. It comes with all sorts of responsibilities a mere general could never handle. Your predecessor, Général Dupont, was not that kind of a man this government needed. He had failed his last master; I should have known he would have failed me as well.”

“I felt honored when I was chosen to become your new Ministre de la Guerre, Your Majesty.”

"How is your family?” The King flipped through another page.

“My children are still growing, and my wife is committed to her daily activities, as usual, sire.” 

“How old are your children?”

“My daughter is eleven, and the boy is thirteen.”

“I see.” Many long seconds passed before the King spoke again. “Did you raise both of your children as Catholics?”

“Yes, I raised them both as such, sire. They are very devout and reverent at Mass on Sundays.”

“That is good, very good to hear. I hope they will turn out to be good, faithful Christians.” His Majesty finally closed the book and placed it down on the table with some difficulty while wincing in pain. “I assume you have learned of Bonaparte’s very recent invasion of my kingdom, did you not?”

“I have, Your Majesty.” Soult’s attitude remained the same. “I was deeply disturbed when I learned of the dreadful news. Bonaparte has proven to be utterly mad. He seems quite willing to plunge France into a bloody civil war just to steal the throne from you, the rightful King. The French people have already suffered quite enough of the usurper’s tyranny. It is because of you, sire, France has been at peace for nearly a year now.”

“I want to know, what are the necessary preparations that have to be quickly met for us to deal with this little intruder?”

“I do recall that there are many units already stationed in the far south, prepared to cooperate with the Austrians to remove the usurper of Naples, Murat, sire eventually.[1] It shouldn’t take long to concentrate some of these available forces to Grenoble.”

“That’s very good. I don’t want the usurper to march his way through my kingdom without any resistance.”

Soult cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, I honestly believe that this is a mere matter for the Gendarmerie to deal with Bonaparte. His army is too small to pose any kind of a serious threat to the nation.” He dismissively remarked.

The King raised his eyebrows. “No. On the contrary, Maréchal Soult, the outcome will entirely depend on the behavior of the first regiment Bonaparte encounters.”

“Sire, I am quite certain those soldiers in the far south of France will likely shoot Bonaparte on sight. They do not wish to fight in another terrible war and die with the Corsican as their ruler again.” Soult’s quick assurance worked with the King, who nodded in agreement. “This issue can be resolved in a matter of days if we act quickly enough. According to the dispatch timing I have read, I think Bonaparte is still deep in southern France and not anywhere near Grenoble. We already have a good garrison in the city. It seems likely Bonaparte is going north as believed by Maréchal Masséna and not taking any alternative route. It is obvious that Paris is his objective, and Grenoble is directly in his path. He must take the latter to move further north. If Bonaparte avoided Grenoble and took any other path to the east or west, it would take quite a bit of time. I know the usurper well enough to understand that he believes speed and time are of the utmost importance to quickly achieve success before any of his enemies can properly react. That was how he was able to win many of his campaigns in Europe. I will make sure Grenoble is reinforced and prepared to meet Bonaparte in the field. Just to be safe as an extra measure, I will also immediately work upon a solid plan to defend Your Majesty’s kingdom. When I do, I will return from my office to discuss it with you, sire.” 

“Good, good.” His Majesty satisfactorily said. “I will look forward to seeing that plan of yours when it is done, Maréchal Soult.”

Eugène spoke up for the first time, gaining the attention of both Soult and the King. From the way, they both looked at him. It was like they had completely forgotten about his presence in the same room. “Can the garrison of Grenoble and the troops sent there trustworthy enough to carry out their duty to you when the time comes, Your Majesty?” 

“Yes. I trust Maréchal Soult’s word on this.” His Majesty then turned to the Minister of War. “Do what you must to ensure the safety of my crown and the stability of my kingdom.”

“I will do what I have to, sire. Should we inform the people of the city of Bonaparte’s arrival? We can rally their support for their King.”

The King shook his head a few times, “No, it would be best to keep the news of the Corsican’s landing a secret for the time being. I do not want the citizens of Paris to become terrified. It would be better to keep them in the dark.”

“As you wish, sire.”

“The two of you may leave me now.” His Majesty picked up the book and opened it up to a specific page.

Soult stood up from the chair and bowed his head before he left the room. Eugène followed the Minister of War outside, and he closed the doors, leaving the King alone in his privacy. He leaned his body up against the wall of the hallway and anxiously wondered how the King could be so certain the troops would kill Bonaparte on their initiative. Eugène was not convinced, for he had his doubts regarding the soldiers' loyalty. It was likely Bonaparte would encounter some troops on his way north. Eugène decided to seek out the Count of Artois regarding the potentially serious problem itself. He was sure this secret of Napoléon’s return would eventually become public knowledge within a concise amount of time. Eugène had no confidence the government could withhold this vital information for so long. 

He was sure that the news of Bonaparte’s arrival had already spread like an uncontrolled fire in southern France.

_How long would it be before the rest of the nation was aware of the usurper’s return?_

Either way, it would not matter in the end. Eugène had a feeling there would be uprisings and even possibly, mass defections in the army in favor of Bonaparte if the situation went out of control. Eugène recognized that the sooner they could quickly deal with Bonaparte. The better it would be for the King. However, if the Corsican were still roaming around like a wild beast in France, the circumstances would undoubtedly turn against the King. 

He soon exited out of the Palais des Tuileries and entered the Pavillon de Marsan. Eugène knew that the King’s brother, Charles, had turned the Pavillon de Marsan into his secret police headquarters. An organization composed of intensely loyal supporters of the crown. He was curious about their activities, but they were unknown to him since the Prince never disclosed what they did.

_They are likely protecting the interest of the royal family._

Eugène speculated. Artois revealed the organization's existence to him only because he was a very loyal supporter of the crown and had promised not to disclose it to anybody else. The Prince’s trust was more valuable to him than gold, and he never betrayed it to this day. Such a thing was inconceivable to him.

Eugène came into a long polished marbled hallway, and there was the closed brown wooden door that led into the office of the head of the secret police. He made it to the opposite end of the corridor, knocked on the entrance, but no response. He tried to open the door; it was locked. He heard a man’s voice that came from behind. It was loud enough to fill the void hallway.

“I apologize, Monsieur le Baron, but I’m afraid I must tell you that Monsieur isn’t present in his office right now. He is currently at vespers.”[2]

_Damn it_.

Eugène cursed to himself. He turned around, and there was a royal servant at the opposite end of the hallway. “Do you know when Monsieur will come back? I need a discussion with him. It is of vital importance.”

“He just barely left, Monsieur le Baron. The Comte d’Artois will be back in less than half an hour. I can fetch for you a quill, ink, and paper to write down a note, and His Highness can send for you when he returns, or do you intend to wait for him?”

“There is no need for a note.” Eugène politely rejected the offer. “I will stay until he is finished with mass.”

“Here, in this same hallway, Monsieur le Baron?” The servant questionably raised an eyebrow. “I can bring you into the drawing-room where you can wait in comfort.” He offered.

“Thank you.”

Eugène followed the servant into a new hallway and stopped before a pair of closed brown doors. The servant opened one of them, leading him into the room. It was spacious with plenty of highly crafted chairs with soft yellow cushions and a couple of polished round tables with four twisted legs. The servant left him alone in the room, closing the pair of doors behind him.

Eugène paced back and forth in the room. “At vespers.” He said lowly to himself. “How can anyone be at vespers in such circumstances? James II of England lost his kingdom for a mass. Are this lot going to lose theirs for vespers?” His frustration gave way to reason. The Prince was unaware of Bonaparte’s invasion since it was a secret kept between himself, the King, and Soult. He stopped pacing, chose a cushioned chair next to one of the round tables, and sat down. He mindlessly focused on a standing clock in the corner of the room. It was ten minutes after midday.

_If the Prince had left at noon, he would return in twenty-one minutes._

A comfortable wait for him. Eugène turned away from the clock, trying to keep himself from checking the time, thinking it would tick slower than he wanted. He tapped away casually on the table’s surface. He examined one of the chairs' woodwork to keep himself somewhat entertained, studying the straight, smooth fibers. Eugène switched to another nearby chair, doing the same thing, but looking at different furniture parts, taking in the armrests and the four wooden curved legs. 

He picked up the noise of shoes walking down a hallway. It stopped outside of the drawing room’s doors. One of them opened, and the Count of Artois came into the doorway. He was dressed in his usual military uniform, something he often wore indoors and outdoors. It was made up of a blue long-sleeved jacket with red cuffs, a golden embroidered collar surrounding his neck, and a single vertical row of yellow buttons going up from belly to throat. Golden epaulets rested on his shoulders. A red sash was worn over the right shoulder with the Grand Cross of the Military Order of Saint Louis pinned to his left breast. The blue jacket was tucked beneath his white breeches with a white sash secured all around his waist. In turn, the bottom half of his pants were slipped underneath the long black riding boots that reached up to his knees.

Eugène stood from his chair and gave a head bow. “Good afternoon, Monsieur.” He greeted. “How was mass?” 

“Worshipping the Almighty always gives me joy.” The Prince smiled. “I’ve been told by my servant that you have something important to discuss with me.”

Eugène nodded, “I do, Monsieur.”

“Come, we can talk in my office.” Eugène followed the Prince out of the drawing-room, into the hallway, and entered the next one where the office was located. Stopping in front of it, the Prince took out from his pocket a set of bronze keys attached to a metal ring and unlocked the door. They entered inside, and there was a rectangular brown table with two chairs. Each of them was located on opposing sides.

“Out of my simple curiosity, Monsieur, why do you have so many keys?”

“I am a very busy man, that is why.” The Prince took his seat behind the desk. He invited Eugène to be seated across from him, and he did just that. “Tell me, my good friend, what do you think about the news of the landing?” He asked casually.

“H-how did you know that, Monsieur?” Eugène simply could not comprehend how the Prince could act so calmly.

“Well, I do have my police after all,” Charles replied. He leaned back against the chair. “While I was still at vespers, one of my informants in the city had told me that he stumbled upon news of the usurper’s return in southern France from a few people talking about it in the streets. It won’t be long before the news is on the lips of every Parisian in the city.”

Eugène was disturbed it had taken only such a short amount of time before the news was spilled out into the streets of Paris. “This was meant to be a government kept secret. Only His Majesty, the Ministre de la Guerre, and I were supposedly the only ones who were aware of Bonaparte’s return. The secret had broken out much sooner than I had anticipated.”

“Such information could never be kept from the public for very long. It was a stupid secret. I bet that the news of Bonaparte has already spread throughout much of southern France. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the nation became aware of it.” Artois sighed, frustratingly, “I love my brother, but it was foolish of him if he thought he could keep this as a secret for long. The people are not stupid, and neither am I.”

“This situation will escalate if we don’t deal with the usurper right now, and that is why I am here to discuss it with you. His Majesty is confident that Bonaparte will be dealt with by the first regiment he encounters, but I have my doubts.”

His Highness nodded, “I share your sentiment.” He agreed. “The army has always been greatly composed of officers loyal to the usurper. To me, they are the real problem. Common soldiers are like dogs, only trained to follow orders. If only my brother had purged the army’s officer corps and replaced the scum with those loyal to the crown. It’s too late for that now.”

“There is still time to stop any possible defections from ever happening, Monsieur. If we are to stop Bonaparte, then I believe that you must be there. All lies entirely in the first shot fired at the enemy. For it to be fired, a prince must be there. It is you, Monseigneur, who can best secure us the army’s fidelity and revive what there is of zeal and love for the royal cause in the population. The men will not desert their King if you are personally there to command them. They will obey you, His Majesty’s royal brother.” 

Charles rubbed his chin in thought. He smiled; the idea of perhaps killing Bonaparte appealed to him. “Very well, I think you are right, and that I’ll have to grease my boots. The soldiers are disobedient, and so is an ill-mannered dog, but they will learn that I am their master. I will make sure the rebellious men are under my firm control by a tight leash. They will learn that they owe their loyalty to the King, not to the damn usurper. Bonaparte’s days are long gone, and they must realize that.” 

Eugène smiled as hope fluttered within him. “I’m very pleased you have accepted my suggestion. You will have to leave without greasing your boots, though. We have little time, and Bonaparte is getting closer to Paris with each passing day. It would be best if you speak with the King very soon, and His Majesty will surely give you a command to help deal with Bonaparte.”

Charles smirked. “I shall. If all goes well, then this will turn out to be little more than a simple hunt. It will not be a challenge since Bonaparte’s army is far too tiny. I will enjoy crushing him under my boot when I get the opportunity. I think that the Duc d’Orléans should accompany me. It would prove as an act of solidarity to those who are still doubtful of the man.”

“Of course, it would be an excellent idea to have him involved.” Eugène politely said. He stopped himself from grimacing in front of the Prince when Louis Philippe was mentioned. He distrusted the Duke, for his father was a strong supporter of the peasant uprising twenty-six years ago. It was worse knowing that Louis Philippe had once briefly fought in service of the illegal French Republic even after Louis XVI was murdered. He only exiled himself when his own life was in danger. The French Republic was on the hunt for those of royal and noble blood. All this, he learned from Artois, who was very friendly to the Duke.

_Louis Philippe is a disgrace to the royal family in all but name_.

He disdainfully thought. “Please, keep in mind that everything will depend on you. Whatever troops will fall under your direct command, you must keep them all in line. Even the slightest hesitation on their part can be disastrous. You must get them to obey you when the time comes, Monsieur, unconditionally.” 

“There is no need to remind me of that. I promise I will not fail in defeating the usurper.” Charles said out of determination. 

“I have little doubt that you will triumph in the end. The odds are massively in our favor after all.” Eugène confidently declared

“Indeed, and I will make sure that Bonaparte will regret his decision in invading France.” Artois boldly boasted. “He shall never make it out of southern France alive. When I defeat and kill him on the field, I think I will even take his famous hat as a trophy for myself. What do you think about that?”

Eugène grinned amusingly. He imagined what Charles would look like wearing Bonaparte’s hat. It was a funny image. “Do you intend to wear it?”

Charles chuckled. “Heavens no, I will look utterly ridiculous wearing that bloody thing. I will not give it to my son and namesake. He has already spent far too much of his time trying his best to emulate the usurper in his vain attempt to win over the affection of the soldiers.” The Prince lightly shook his head side to side in clear disapproval. “He was under the silly impression that just because he was dressed in the same kind of a green coat the usurper often wore, that would somehow make him much more likable in the army. At one time, I was not surprised when he angrily complained to me that the troops did not respect him at all when they directly said some disrespectful things to him.” Charles embarrassingly rubbed the area between his eyes. “It shames me that my son can be very foolish and naïve at times. I cannot even differentiate which one is worse. Now that I have thought about it, I wonder, when the time comes for him to succeed his brother as King, is he even capable of ruling the kingdom?”

Eugène did not say anything about the subject, knowing it was not his place to make any negative remarks about the Duke of Berry.

Charles eyed him expectantly. “Why must you be silent? Do you think I am wrong about my son?”

Eugène quickly thought upon a response. “I just thought that maybe, he ought to be given a chance to prove his bravery. Bonaparte is here in France, and the Duc de Berry can use this opportunity to show his mettle.” He privately shared many of Charles’s critical views regarding the character of his youngest son. On top of that, Berry was pompous. Despite those negative traits, he believed there was the possibility the Duke may still have retained his military experience and his potential to succeed if given a chance. Eugène hoped that might be the case. He had a nagging feeling he was about to make a mistake, but he shrugged it off.

Charles pursed his lips together in consideration before he spoke. “Perhaps, you are right about that. I may have been a little too harsh regarding what I have just said about him. If he is given a command, then I hope he will prove me wrong about what I think of him.”

“I’m sure he will exceed your expectations, Monsieur.” Eugène wondered if the Duke would succeed in achieving the former or the latter regarding his father’s expectations over his martial abilities. It was hard for him to tell. He knew that Berry had served in the Army of Condé and fought with some distinction in a few battles against the Republican armies during a Rhine campaign. However, that was a minimal experience, and it happened nearly twenty years ago.

_Since then, he has never fought again_.

He worriedly noted. Was there still room for potential, or had the Duke completely lost his military capabilities from two decades of inactivity? Eugène had little idea. Perhaps, the possibility of being a decent leader might pay off well. It was a hope he held onto, and despite the flaws of the Duke, he viewed the cup as half full, not like the father who saw it as half empty. “Given the present situation, I could take it up with the King the next time I meet with him and see if he will grant the Duc de Berry a suitable command.”

“There is no need. I will personally discuss the matter with my brother.” Artois insisted. “What will you do in the meantime?”

“I will do anything within in my power to prevent the usurper from unlawfully taking the throne from our King.”

“I deeply admire your unshakable loyalty to my family, but you must realize that you, as a single individual, can only do so much. I think it is time you let others perform their roles in defending France from the Corsican invader. The situation will be resolved in our favor within a short amount of time.”

“Monsieur, are you saying that I should do nothing at all?”

Charles shook his head, “No, you misunderstood what I meant. I think you have already done more than enough, and you ought to allow others to do their part in the fight against Bonaparte.”

“I simply cannot relax. I must make sure our chances of defeating the usurper are still greatly in our favor. I cannot sit around and do nothing.”

Charles sighed, “Well, what do you want to do exactly? Are you capable of leading an army? Is that what you want?”

Eugène did not answer and lowered his head in defeat. His military experience was limited, having served in the Army of Condé against the illicit French Republic, but that was almost two decades ago. “I suppose I can somehow provide a better service to our King here in the city than out there on the battlefield.”

“Fighting can be won through the quill rather than with the sword. I think you are more suited for the former than the latter.”

Eugène nodded once, agreeing. “You are probably right about that.” He then stood up from his chair, “I think I have overstayed my welcome in your office, Monsieur.”

“Are you sure you do not wish to stay here any longer?”

“I thank you for the offer, but I do not wish to take up more of your valuable time.”

“As you wish then, goodbye.”

“Good day to you, Monsieur.” Eugène respectfully bowed his head to the Prince before leaving the office. He must speak with the King about an issue he was seriously concerned about with the army. The leadership could not be trusted since many of the commanders had fought for Napoléon. He was sure the King’s brother and the Duke of Berry would probably be given their commands. Still, it was not enough if they were only given a fraction of the French army. All royal troops must be strictly controlled. The King’s eldest nephew needed to be involved, with him being in south-western France. Forces there could be rallied. His ideas must be presented to His Majesty as soon as possible.

Eugène soon exited outside of the Pavillon de Marsan and entered into the Palais des Tuileries through a different door at ground level. He made his way up through the palace's stories and came into the hallway leading to the King’s study, where he believed His Majesty still resided right now. The same Guardsman was still present, outside of the door, and he politely stopped him from attempting to gain entrance into the room.

“I do apologize, Monsieur.” The Guard said. “His Majesty does not wish to be disturbed right now.”

“Do you know when His Majesty will be available during the day?” Eugène urgently questioned. “I wish to speak with him again.”

The guard shook his head. “I do not know, but I will make sure on your behalf that he is aware of your request, Monsieur le Baron.”

“I will hold you to that.” Eugène turned around and strolled in the opposite direction. He only had a vague notion over how long it would take before the King would grant him an audience. It could take many long hours, and he was sure that would be the case. Eugène was not interested in waiting by the corner outside of the King’s room. Waiting patiently for the Count of Artois to arrive from the mass was a dull experience. Time initially went by very slowly for him. He needed to find an efficient way to spend his time waiting for the King to send for him.

He crossed paths with his friend, the round-faced, light-brown, curly-haired Charles Ferdinand, the Duke of Berry, who suddenly appeared from a corner in the same hallway. The King’s nephew was coming from the opposite end and followed by two servants. Much like his father, the Duke was dressed in his military attire of a dark blue single-breasted jacket with a standing red neck collar surrounding his black cravat. The shoulders were adorned with golden epaulets with full fringes. His brown leather belt carried a gold buckle and a sheathed curved sword, with a golden hilt and knuckle bow was hanging by the right hip. His long white breeches were tucked beneath his black riding boots.

Eugène greeted first. “Good afternoon, Monsieur le Duc de Berry.”

“Monsieur le Baron de Vitrolles,” Berry replied. “May I be privy in regards to where you are heading off to?”

Before Eugène could answer, his hungrily stomach growled. It reminded him he had not eaten since the morning when he had received that vital dispatch. He was embarrassed in the presence of the Duke over the loud grumbling noise. “Oh, dear, I wish to apologize, Royal Highness. I am afraid I have not eaten since the breaking of dawn. I have been busy with important business.”

Berry briefly chortled. “There is no need to make an apology, Monsieur le Baron, no need at all.”

Eugène cleared his throat. “In answer to your question, I honestly was not entirely sure what I was about to do. I have yet to come up with an idea. I wanted to gain an audience with the King, but His Majesty is busy now, and I suspect he will be for a long time.”

“Do you know what His Majesty is doing right now?” Berry asked out of curiosity.

“I’m afraid the member of the Garde de la Porte I’ve spoken with could not tell me since he did not know.”

“I see. In the end, whatever my uncle is doing, it is of little importance to me.” Berry dismissed. “I was looking for you, hoping if you would be interested in joining me for a meal? Judging from the grumbling noise I heard, I think your stomach would agree with me, but what do you say?”

Eugène smiled, “I thank you for the kind offer. I would very happily join you, Monsieur le Duc.”

“Please, follow me.” Berry led the way, and Eugène followed him.

Eugène was led into the lavish red-carpeted, white-walled dining room where the royal family usually ate together for their scheduled meals. It was empty of occupants. Berry took his gilded white-cushioned seat at the table's head, and Eugène sat in an equally splendid chair from the Duke’s left-hand side. After they made their orders, the two servants left for the palace kitchen. 

Eugène initiated the conversation. “Have you heard of Bonaparte’s invasion of this kingdom?” He soberly asked, seeing there was no point to him in hiding the information.

The Duke was stunned. “When did this happen exactly?” He asked very calmly, almost in a whispered tone.

“I received a dispatch this morning from the military district commander of the city of Marseilles, Maréchal Masséna. The dispatch was dated from the 3rd of March, and it was written that the usurper landed on the shores of France on the first day of this month.”

“This is truly very worrying,” Berry noted gravely. “Where is Bonaparte right now?”

“I do not know where exactly. The Ministre de la Guerre, the King, and I are certain that he is still deep in southern France. We are making sure the usurper will never make it to Paris. The Ministre de la Guerre is making plans even as we speak. I have also convinced your father that it would be prudent for him to ask for a command from the King so he can quickly confront and destroy Bonaparte.”

Eugène was about to continue, but he stopped when he heard the dining room's doors opening. There entered three servants, including the two who belonged to the Duke. One of them held a small silver pot, and another carried two porcelain plates. The third brought in the silver eating utensils and triangular white cloth napkins. Everything was laid out on the table, and the first course was served before the servants left the room. The Duke uttered grace before eating commenced.

Eugène swallowed a spoonful of the hot creamy potato and onion soup. “I suggested to your father that it was time for you to be given a command so that you could prove yourself against Bonaparte. He thought it was a good idea.”

Berry looked pleased. “That is very good to hear. I am pleased you made him realize my worth as a commander.” Charles ate a spoonful of his beef broth. “I have always wanted to prove my bravery on the battlefield. Bonaparte will tremble when I meet him with my army.”

_Will they fight for you or for the usurper?_

Eugène wanted to voice out his doubts, but he kept his mouth shut. Admittedly, it was difficult for him even to imagine Bonaparte’s supposed terror facing the Duke. The usurper had fought against more formidable opponents before, and he had often triumphed. “I am sure the people will praise you as the savior of France from the Corsican invader.”

“Yes. I will win the love and admiration of the army the moment I destroy Bonaparte in the field.” The Duke confidently boasted. “Of that, I am quite certain will soon come to pass.”

For a moment, Eugène was under the impression if the Duke was being either utterly insane or stupid. The soldiers had spilled their blood for Bonaparte. Why would they love Berry if he somehow successfully killed the usurper? Eugène had no idea how the Duke came up with such an illogical notion. He took another spoonful of the soup. “I have very little doubt the soldiers will look up to you as a great leader.” He said purely out of politeness. He hated the idea of lying just to satisfy Berry’s delusions of grandeur. The father had told him of Berry’s failed attempt to make the soldiers like him.

_Maybe, it could be done through a different method_.

He optimistically speculated. If it worked, it might even be enough for the troops to respect the Duke. “Perhaps if you were to lead from the front and share in their hardships, then they will respect you far more than they do now.”

Berry laughed as though it were a jest. “I am not a peasant, Monsieur le Baron. My place is on the saddle of a magnificent warhorse, not on the filthy ground. That is the job of the common soldier, not for someone like me.”

Eugène remembered a famous Russian leader who was once deeply loved by the men he had successfully led into battle. “Have you ever heard of Alexander Suvorov?”

Berry beamed at the name. “Of course, I have heard of that man. I have always admired him. Why do you ask?”

“He was once very popular among his soldiers.” Eugène pointed out. “From what I have heard, one of the reasons why his soldiers loved him was because he shared in their hardships as if he was one of them. I think it would be a good start for you to do the same, but it is only advice, nothing more, and I could be wrong. There may be other ways to win the respect of the men you lead as their commander.” He suggested carefully. “I am positive that the soldiers would be more willing to follow you if you took after the example of the man you greatly admire.”

Berry pursed his lips together, disapprovingly. “I dislike the very idea of getting my clothes dirty and eating disgusting army rations, but if the men love me more if I slept on the same filthy ground as they do, then I might consider doing just that. The thought is still not very appealing to me, though.” He resumed eating his soup.

_I never said that being a leader was meant to be easy._

Eugène wanted to say, but again, he restrained his tongue. He said nothing more in return, and he focused on eating his soup. He thought it was a great pity that Alexander Suvorov had died too early fifteen years ago, or otherwise, he doubted he would even be having this conversation with the Berry. Eugène was confident that the Russian field marshal was perhaps the only man who was alive at that time that could have destroyed Bonaparte in the field of battle. He brushed away the theoretical ideas. The royal family must do what they could with what resources and loyal men were currently available for use.

_Everything will depend upon the first shot fired, and Bonaparte will not trouble us the moment he is dead. I hope to God that will be the case, or the situation will turn nasty._

Eugène felt that the Count of Artois was truly right about his son the entire time. He regretted it when he made that foolish suggestion to the Count of Artois in the first place. Eugène was still confident Artois could enforce obedience from the soldiers under his direct command. He was quite doubtful if the son could do the same. Eugène did not think that the Duke would be pompous to the point of being blind to basic logic. It was too late to rectify his mistake. Any attempt on his part to fix it would be a slight against the Duke and an extended insult to the royal family. He hoped Berry would not make too many mistakes.

He continued to eat from the contents of his soup plate until it was finished. Berry was not done with his appetizer. Eugène engaged him in more idle talk about a few subjects, like history, philosophy, money, and even agriculture. The last topic died nearly as soon as it was brought up in the conversation when either of them had displayed that they knew nothing about farming other than eating the grown food. After they had waited for a good long while, the door opened, and the servants brought in the meal's main course. A plate with a whole chicken was placed in front of Eugène. Berry had ordered an entire smoked fish seasoned with all sorts of condiments. Glass cups were placed, and wine was served. The third servant left the dining room, and the other two servants then stood by behind Eugène and the Duke, waiting to cater to either of them.

They made short talk during the meal. When they were both nearly finished with their food, the Duke gestured with his hand for the servant who stood behind him to come forward. Berry leaned forward and whispered into the man’s ear. The servant left the room for the kitchen. Berry looked at Eugène. “As for dessert, I have a surprise in mind.”

“I wonder what it will be.” Eugène eagerly wondered.

“You will find out soon enough.”

Eugène and Berry resumed eating from their plates until they were both done. The wait was short when the same servant returned from the kitchen. He brought in two porcelain cups and a silver serving pitcher, with steam being emitted from the round metal spout. Eugène wondered what kind of a hot beverage would be fit for dessert. He smelled a deliciously sweet aroma from the serving pitcher, and he quickly realized what was about to be served. “We are drinking chocolate, are we not?” 

Berry nodded. “Your nose can easily spoil my surprises.” He said laughingly.

The hot dark liquid was soon poured into the cups. The servant stood behind Berry, with the serving pitcher at hand, waiting to refill either of the two cups whenever needed. Eugène sipped a small amount of the hot liquid. He relished the sweet taste in his mouth before he swallowed it. “It has been far too long since the last time I have tasted chocolate.”

“I am very pleased you enjoy the treat.” Berry grinned. “It is one of my favorite things to drink at my leisure. We can thank the Spanish for bringing something so exotic from the New World centuries ago.” He took a sip from his cup.

“The Americas are quite full of surprises,” Eugène noted out of interest. “I think I could comprehend the many reasons why so many people have migrated to the New World.”

“I, for one, cannot understand the reasons why the common people would want to leave the safety and security of their native homeland. Just like it would not make any logical sense for a silly child to take off in an adventure in a wild and untamed land.”

“Perhaps, they simply wished to live in a different land purely for the sake of opportunity.”

“Ha! An opportunity, you say? The New World is populated by half-naked, bloodthirsty savages that resemble animals more than actual humans, from what I have heard. That place hardly sounds promising at all for civilized men to settle and live, but if our foolish subjects wish to take their chances, then so be it. Their certain deaths will serve as an example to those in this country who wish to undertake their idiotic endeavors.”

“I guess there are some who are simply too restless and ambitious for their country. Barbarians may inhabit the New World, but I think it would be an interesting place in the world for anyone to see for themselves.”

“The lands beyond the Atlantic Ocean do seem rather interesting; I’ll say that much at least.” Berry acknowledged. “I am personally quite content staying here in France, where order and security are firmly established.” He looked past Eugène at the servant behind him. “You can take the dishes away now.” Berry leaned back more comfortably into his chair and looked down at the floor, thinking, it seemed to Eugène.

The servant collected the dishes, eating utensils, and wine cups off the table. The man efficiently carried everything out to the door all at once. A silence immediately broke out, and nothing more was said between him and the Duke at the table.

Eugène felt a little uncomfortable. He wondered if Berry had grown a bit bored with his presence. The quietness lasted for many minutes. During that time, Eugène had silently disagreed regarding what Berry had lastly stated. It almost sounded like a joke, with order and security being firmly established. Eugène deduced that if order had been firmly in place before, then the illegal revolt initiated by the peasants would have been successfully quelled twenty-six years ago. The usurper would never have risen to power. He wondered if Berry had already forgotten about that uncomfortable fact. Now that the usurper was on French soil once again, France's security and order would also be put to the test.

_It must succeed this time_.

Berry finally shifted his attention back to him after a long moment of mutual silence. “It was a pity we had lost our great overseas empire more than fifty years ago.” He suddenly remarked with a hint of bitterness in his tone and a slight frown.

Eugène thought it was an odd way for Berry to resume the conversation after being silent for a while. He went along with the talk anyway. “It was a humiliating defeat,” Eugène admitted. The war was a terrible defeat for France. “We did gain our revenge in the next war with England at least.”

Berry lightly scoffed in disagreement. “Supporting that ridiculous rebellion in the former thirteen colonies was a mistake in the end on my family’s part. Not only that war had financially ruined France, the influence of the Americans, who successfully revolted against their English masters, had infected the minds of the people of this glorious kingdom. They were taught to be rebellious, and it gave them the idea that they should overthrow their King. These damn commoners murdered my uncle as a result.” He grimaced.

Eugène had never viewed the subject from that angle before. Still, he thought that blaming the Americans for the uprising in France sounded very far-fetched. He believed the series of bad harvests from 1780 to 1789 was a more significant factor.

_Hungry people will take desperate measures of any kind._

He listened as Berry continued speaking. “Losing Nouvelle France to our old rival across the English Channel was bad enough. The fact that the rebellious peasants of this kingdom had forced my family into exile was an irremovable stain on the honor of our old glorious ruling house. To add insult to injury, I hated the idea that we were completely reliant upon foreigners, especially the English, to help us regain our rightful place as the ruling dynasty of the Kingdom of France. It was embarrassing; it made my family look like beggars.” He finished with a disgruntled sigh.

“Sometimes, even old enemies can become friends in support for a common cause,” Eugène added. “It was not that long ago when the Spanish and the English were once at war with each other. Immediately after they made peace, they became allies, and they joined their forces together to remove the usurper’s brother from the throne of Spain.”

“Alliances may be formed, but old feelings will always remain in place like a stubborn stain. A flimsy piece of paper cannot wipe away the old feelings of rivalry for many long generations between nations that have often warred with each other. I can promise you that the Spanish and the English are anything but friends.” He sipped the contents of the cup and held it out in the air. The servant behind the Duke filled the cup with more chocolate.

“I think that even old bitter feelings will eventually die in time.”

Berry shook his head. “I must beg to differ. Old sentiments of hatred and bitterness felt towards another nation are very much like an ugly scar. It will never go away. It will only continue to rekindle your anger, especially in a time of war.”

“I suppose that there will always be some people who will dislike foreigners for a reason. I do not believe we will go to war with the English again any time soon. Europe has already been plunged into near-constant warfare for over twenty years. Every great nation is trying to recover everything they have lost during the days of the usurper.”

“Have you already forgotten about Bonaparte?” Berry asked with his voice raised a little. “I fear that the bleeding might commence one more if he is not stopped at any time soon.” 

Eugène swore he saw a flicker of fear in Berry’s eyes. It was something new he not seen before. “He will be stopped, Monsieur le Duc,” Eugène gently assured with determination. Berry did not look reassured. “We will make sure that France will never again suffer under his tyranny.”

“I hope you are right about that, or we will have to start packing up our belongings and return into exile again. Whatever respect my family had commanded from the rest of the mighty rulers will be lost forever if we cannot stop Bonaparte from seizing the throne.”

“Time is still on our side. France's armies will be brought together soon enough, and Bonaparte will be completely overwhelmed very soon. I believe the situation will be resolved very quickly, perhaps within less than a week or in several days if we are lucky.”

Berry straightened himself in his chair. “Luck isn’t reliable. It did not save my late uncle from losing his head. There is still the possibility that everything will be turned against us. Unless God himself will strike down the usurper, I doubt that luck will save us by then. You really should keep that in mind, my good baron.”

“I will, Monsieur le Duc, I will.” Eugène had difficulty comprehending why Berry acted as if the entire situation was nearly out of control. Berry was enthusiastic about fighting the usurper some time ago. Now it seemed like his attitude completely shifted. He talked like a defeatist, and Eugène disapproved of the things the Duke had stated a few moments ago. It sounded very unbefitting of a member of the royal family.

_Was he just scared of Napoléon the entire time?_

Eugène would not dare ask that question.

He finished his cup of chocolate, for he was not in the mood to have another refill. Eugène placed the cup on the table and left it there. Curious about the time, he took out his pocket watch and flipped open the hatch. Three and a half hours have passed.

“Are you late for something important?”

“No, not at all, Monsieur le Duc,” Eugène answered as he returned the watch to his pocket. “I was only curious regarding the time.” 

“What is the time exactly?”

“It is nearly 4:00 in the afternoon?”

“Time surely flies by when one is busy.”

“It seems that simply eating and drinking is a good way to pass the time.” Eugène stood up from his chair, “I thank you very much for the meal and the dessert. I think I have already taken up much of your valuable time.” 

“There is no need to feel that way. I enjoyed your company. You can stay here longer if you so please.” Berry offered invitingly with a smile.

Berry sounded genuine, but there was nothing else for Eugène to talk about with him. He was not interested in becoming engaged in useless chatter. “I again thank you, but I must respectfully decline your offer in allowing me to stay longer.”

“All right, if you insist.” Berry did not seem offended, much to Eugène’s relief. “It was a pleasure for me to eat and talk with you. I will look forward to possibly having another meal with you at another time, perhaps.”

“That would be very nice, but the next time, I think I should have the honor and return the favor by offering you an invitation.”

“That sounds very pleasant. Would you like to be escorted to the door?”

Eugène hesitated for a moment. He decided to take the offer out of politeness. “I appreciate the offer, Monsieur le Duc.”

Berry looked over his shoulder and at the man who held the chocolate serving pitcher. “Escort Monsieur le Baron to the door.” The servant nodded. He placed the pitcher on the table before approaching Eugène and stood next to him at an appropriate distance.

“I wish you a good afternoon, Monsieur le Duc.” Eugène stepped away from the chair and pushed it underneath the table.

“It was my pleasure to partake in a meal with you. Good day to you.”

Eugène headed for the door. The servant, who accompanied him, quickly reached the door first, and he opened it for him. He left the dining room, and the door was closed shut from behind. Eugène grew worried if he would ever obtain that audience with the King. Did the guard he met earlier in the day forget what he said he would do for him? Eugène had to check to make sure the guard did not fail.

Within a few minutes, he came into the same hallway that led to His Majesty’s study. The same guard was still there outside of the door. “Is His Majesty available right now for a possible audience?” Eugène asked as he walked down the hall. 

“His Majesty is having a meeting right now with the Ministre de la Guerre. I was able to make the King aware of your desire to have an audience with him, but His Majesty did not say when he wanted to have it with you, Monsieur le Baron.”

“Was that everything His Majesty had said?”

The guard nodded his head.

Eugène was disappointed. He must wait longer to be summoned in the King’s own good time. “I will wait for as long as I must until His Majesty is ready for the audience. When His Majesty is ready and willing to see me, please remember that I will be in the Jardin des Tuileries.”

The guard nodded. Eugène turned around and walked back in the opposite direction. He decided to take a walk in the Jardin des Tuileries just to pass the time. He felt bored and cooped up staying indoors. He trekked through several halls and came down a few stairways before he arrived at the doors which led outside.

When Eugène stepped out of the Palais des Tuileries, the warm rays of the afternoon sun kissed his face, and he enjoyed the feeling. He entered the famous Jardin des Tuileries. He spent his time sight-seeing the things he had already observed many times before, taking in the mulberry trees, groves, and flower gardens. He socialized with people of the same social class. He stayed clear away from the ordinary people that outnumbered the aristocrats by a large majority.

Eugène disliked the idea of publicly sharing the royal garden with the peasants. They were little more than animals wearing human skin. He was correct in his assessment. They murdered the King’s brother decades ago, and it irked him the low-born commoners shared the garden as if they were the same as the high-born nobility. It was a sight that must be tolerated until the King changed the rules. It was a change he looked forward to seeing if it happened, but he was sure that was very unlikely ever to occur. The garden had been opened to the public since the reign of Louis XIV. 

Eugène had made it to the center of the Jardin des Tuileries. Up ahead, he found a wooden bench underneath the large shade of a tree. He sat down on the vacant seat. It felt good for him resting his legs. He took in the scenery all around him. He was amazed by the beauty of the garden. It looked so very natural even though men created it. Time went by, with people walking past him from two opposite directions. He enjoyed his relaxation.

He heard a succession of quick footsteps coming in his direction. Eugène turned his head, wondering who was running. It was a palace servant. By the time the man had finally reached Eugène, he was entirely out of breath. It took him some time before he spoke up. “Monsieur le Baron.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath, “The King is ready for you now. I will escort you there, myself.” 

Eugène stood up from the bench, followed the servant out of the garden and through the Palais des Tuileries' entrance. It did not take them long before they arrived in the hallway where the King’s room was located. The same guard was still there at his post in front of the door. The servant took the lead and knocked several times on the door as part of the formal protocol.

“Who is it?” The King asked from inside the room.

“It is me, Your Majesty, Le Baron de Vitrolles,” Eugène answered formally.

“Ah, yes, come on in, Monsieur le Baron.”

The servant opened the door for him and closed it when Eugène had moved into the room. He was not surprised the King was in the same spot like before on his couch. The First Valet was at his place in the corner of the room. 

“Come and take a seat.” The King gestured with his hand.

Eugène pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. He noticed the King was busy reading from the same book in his hand.

_He must have read quite a few pages._

“I want to thank you for waiting very patiently, Monsieur le Baron.” The King flipped through another page in the book. “Would you care for something to drink, perhaps?”

“I thank Your Majesty for the offer, but I respectfully decline.”

“As you wish.” The King slightly shrugged. “Why did you want to have an audience with me?” His Majesty closed the book and placed it on the table. The King’s attention was now solely focused on him. 

Eugène was happily surprised the King went straight to the point. He expected His Majesty would start asking of him several meaningless questions, just as he did with Marshal Soult earlier in the day. He was glad something so trivial was avoided. “Your Majesty, I am here to discuss with Your Majesty a potentially serious problem concerning the chain of command in the army.”

“As far as I can see, there is nothing wrong with the leadership of the royal army. I fail to understand why I ought to be concerned.”

“It is the men who oversee the army, sire. Many marshals and generals would be tempted to defect outright to Bonaparte as soon as they are given a chance. Even though many have sworn their oaths to you, I do not believe that a simple pledge of allegiance by itself will be enough to command their loyalty, especially at a time like this. Some of them may stay loyal to you, such as the Ministre de la Guerre and some others, sire, but not all; I can promise you that, Your Majesty.”

“It sounds like you wish to suggest something. Is that right?”

“Respectfully, yes, with your permission?” The King nodded. “I humbly suggest that I think it would be a wise decision on Your Majesty’s part to divide the army in its entirety and split it amongst the princes of the royal family. They can directly ensure obedience from the army, especially when it is time to face Bonaparte in the field. All generals and marshals who fall under the royal family members' direct command can be kept on a tight leash. It’s very much like making sure a pet dog does not wander off if given complete independence.”

The King rubbed his left eye. “My brother made a similar suggestion to me. He wanted me to grant him and his son, the Duc de Berry, each a command. He also told me that you were the one who gave him that advice in the first place.”

“That is correct, sire.” Eugène cleared his throat before he continued. “If I may be bold enough to ask? Did Your Majesty grant the Comte d’Artois’ request in obtaining a command for himself and the Duc de Berry?”

“Yes, I did, but it did not have anything to do with any distrust of the army’s leadership. I still think they will not betray me after being loyal to me for nearly a year. I doubt they would wish to sacrifice the peace of France by supporting the usurper’s return.” His Majesty reasoned. “I gave them their commands because I have faith in my brother and nephew that they will not fail me. I will send the Comte d’Artois to Lyons tonight to take his command there. My nephew will depart for the Franche-Comté region and gather up whatever troops are available for action.”

Eugène felt that concern lifted out of his heart. “I am relieved that you had already made that wise decision before I even came here to have this audience with you, sire. I believe the Comte d’Artois and the Duc de Berry could rein in very effective control over the army and discourage any poisonous notions of defection and treason.” He was confident of Artois but not of the Berry. “I am curious about one more thing, sire.” The King nodded, permitting him to speak. “It’s about the Duc d’Angoulême. Will he be given a command of his own by chance?”

“Yes. The Ministre de la Guerre recommended that my eldest nephew be given his command, and I thought it was a good idea. The Duc d’Angoulême will gather whatever regulars and troops of the National Guard are available at Nîmes. With these three combined forces, we should have at around sixty-thousand troops all concentrated on converging upon Napoléon, surround him, and destroy him.” The King briefly paused before he continued. “The Ministre de la Guerre will make sure that my nephew will receive his instructions through the semaphore telegraph, explaining the situation. I hope he will quickly receive it.”

“He will receive the news in time, Your Majesty.” Eugène confidently stated, “The semaphore telegraph system will enable Your Majesty to send in messages within a relatively short amount of time. It is far more reliable than sending out couriers.”

“Yes, you are right.” The King seemed to have grown disinterested in continuing the conversation when he picked up the book and found the reading page. “If there is nothing else to talk about in-depth, I would like to resume my reading.”

_Is he more interested in pursuing his pleasures than ensuring the security of his kingdom_?

Eugène stood up from the chair, “I have said what needed to be discussed, sire. I want to thank Your Majesty for the trouble in finding the time for this audience.”

“It was a pleasure to talk about the situation with you, Monsieur le Baron. I am glad you have shown your concern for the security of my kingdom. I wish you a good day.” His Majesty farewelled while he focused upon his book.

“I wish Your Majesty the same.” Eugène then bowed before he walked to the door. Is the King’s throne secure? He was not sure if that was even remotely true. He knew it would soon be put to the test.

[1] Joachim Murat was Napoléon’s brother-in-law, a former Marshal of the Empire, and the King of Naples.

[2] The eldest brother of the French King was typically referred to as ‘Monsieur’ as an honorific title in court.


	14. Orders

_March 5 th, 1815_

Louis Philippe adjusted himself on his oak-carved, black cushioned chair. He turned the page of the newspaper. Someone knocked on the door to his drawing-room. “Enter.” Louis Philippe called out. He folded up the paper in his hands and put it aside.

The door opened, and his servant stood in the doorway. The man bowed his head. “Monsieur le Prince, we have an important visitor.”[1]

“Who is this visitor?”

_Who would be visiting me at this time of the night?_

“It is Monsieur de Blacas, the Ministre de la Maison du Roi.” The servant answered. “He waits for you in the antechamber, Monsieur le Duc.”

Louis almost frowned at the mention of the name of that particular man. Pierre de Blacas was nothing more than a jumped-up, arrogant, self-important simpleton. He knew that Blacas was also the favorite of the King. He must put up with the man’s presence only for a little while. “Let him know I will meet him very soon.”

The servant bowed and closed the door. Louis exited out of the drawing-room, and he soon made it to his luxurious private chambers. He discarded the black robe he wore and put it away in his red wardrobe before he getting dressed in more appropriate clothing, putting on a long, black, single-breasted jacket, along with his white waistcoat, red breeches, white stockings, and black buckled shoes.

Louis made his way to the antechamber where his visitor waited for him. He opened the doors, and there was brown, curly-haired, round-faced Pierre de Blacas attired in a black coat, white breeches, and a cravat. He was leaning his back up against the white wooden wall of the small four-sided room. “Good evening to you, Monsieur de Blacas.” He politely greeted, “It is a pleasure for me to have you here in my humble home.”

Blacas looked indifferent, “His Majesty wanted to speak to you, Monsieur le Prince, at once.” He said with a low voice.

_Currently? What does he want with me?_

“I’ll go and put on my uniform and present myself to the King.”

“No need,” Blacas quickly said. “The King’s asking for you as you are, and with your permission, I’ll take you there in my carriage.”

“What! In the civvies at the Tuileries! All Paris will be talking about it! What’s so urgent at this time of the night?”

“I can tell you in advance. Bonaparte’s in France.” Blacas stated quite calmly.

Louis was quite staggered. “H-how can that be so?”

“He decided that Elba was not enough for him. He wants France for himself. Please follow me to my carriage, then you can discuss it with the King. He has something in mind for you regarding Bonaparte’s invasion.”

Louis Philippe nodded slowly. “All right, you can lead the way.”

He followed Blacas until they were out of the Palais-Royal, coming out through the main door and down a set of stone steps. They entered inside the black carriage pulled by two white horses, and the driver put the vehicle into motion. Louis and Blacas were already speaking about Bonaparte’s recent incursion by the time they went inside.

“Since two o’clock in this afternoon, there have been five dispatches by the Lyons telegraph. Bonaparte’s only got a thousand or perhaps fourteen hundred with him.” Blacas informed.

It sounded as if the situation was only a minor issue to be resolved, but Louis knew better than that. “Makes no odds,” He warned. “The danger’s immense.”

“That’s not how the King sees it, and you’ll find him very calm.”

“Just as well, but do try and save him from entertaining illusions.” 

Blacas nodded. “I can see this news is making a great impression on you.”

“Oh! Very great,” Louis admitted. He was quite nervous.

The coachman announced their arrival, and then the northern black grilled gates were opened by two men of the National Guard. The coach halted between the Palais des Tuileries and the Jardin des Tuileries. Both he and Blacas exited the carriage as soon as the coachman opened the door for them. Blacas told the coachman to stay put and wait to take him, the Duke of Orléans back home to the Palais-Royal.

The entrance of the Palais des Tuileries was reached. They entered through the main doors and made their way up the stairs and into the grand building's higher levels. They came into the hallway leading to the King’s study, where a Garde de la Porte protected it, and they made it to the closed door.

Blacas knocked on the door.

“Is that you, Monsieur de Blacas?” The King asked from inside. He sounded tired.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Blacas replied, “I have brought the Duc d’Orléans with me as instructed.”

“Good, you may retire for the rest of the night. I will no longer require your services.”

“Thank you, sire.” Blacas turned around and left in the opposite direction in the hallway.

Someone opened the door from inside. Louis entered the room before the door was closed from behind by the First Valet. The King himself was sitting on a white cushioned large armchair, enjoying the heat emanated from the blazing fireplace in front of him, the only light illuminating the entire room. His Majesty wore a lengthy white robe with golden lilies embroidered everywhere. The feet, wearing sizeable white slippers, were rested on top of a low footstool.

Louis reached the fireplace and stood before his King by a few meters. “Monsieur le Baron Huë, provide my guest with a chair.” The King instructed. The First Valet picked up a chair from the rectangular table in the room and placed it beside him. As soon as the chair was provided, Philippe sat down.

“Well, Monsieur le Prince, Buonaparte’s in France.” The King casually stated.

Philippe noticed how the King had placed deliberate emphasis on the originally spelled foreign surname of the usurper. “Yes, sire. And it makes me very angry.” He said, slightly frowning. “I can’t believe he would be bold or mad enough to invade Your Majesty’s kingdom. Bonaparte has proven that his madness has no limits.”

“Ah! I’d just as soon he wasn’t. But since he is, we must hope this’ll be a crisis that’ll rid us of him.”

“I hope so, sire, but I’m afraid that once the troops contact him, it’ll snowball. We must be of only sending against him troops we can be sure will fire at him. For if there is any hesitation among the first, it’ll get serious.”

“There is hardly any need to worry.” The King coolly assured. “I’m quite certain that generals Marchand, at Grenoble, and Mouton Duvernet, at Valence, will stop the usurper before he can reach Gap.”

Louis was very unsure, “Sire, one-third of the 2ème Artillerie à Cheval under Colonel Noël, at Valence, is composed of debris from the Garde Impériale. They will not do anything against Bonaparte, and they probably will join him at the first chance they get.”

“I can only fervently pray to God that will not happen.” The King wishfully hoped. 

Louis grounded his teeth together in slight irritation.

_What a weak response it was_.

Louis Philippe noted that His Majesty’s composure had not changed in the slightest. He respected how the King remained very calm in the face of apparent danger, even if His Majesty did not seemingly take it as seriously as he should.

_An admirable trait. It’s too bad that is only one of the few great things about him._

“I have called you here for a specific reason, Monsieur le Duc. I’m sending my brother to Lyons, and I want you to go with him as his subordinate. I am quite certain that by sending my brother to Lyons, and having the Duc d’Angoulême go to Nîmes, and sending the Duc de Berry to Franche-Comté, where they will all gather forces, Bonaparte will be trapped behind the Rhône River, and he will eventually be destroyed.”

“Sire, is it really so prudent to send princes against Bonaparte but no troops? Wouldn’t it be better if Monsieur assembled his forces between Lyons and Paris and made sure of their attitudes?”

“Not at all,” The old King said dryly, “You’ll be much more useful with my brother, who’ll give you a division or an army corps, well, something or other, as he thinks fit.”

“Surely, it is not a good idea to send off all the princes of the blood and not have one of them stay with you, Your Majesty.” He persisted politely with his protest, “For my part, I would happily stay and protect you, sire.”

“No, no,” the King obstinately rejected, “I do not need you here. You can grease your boots and leave for Lyons, if not exactly this evening, then tomorrow.”

Louis conceded in defeat. “I will leave tomorrow, sire.”

“Good.” The King cracked a small smile. “You must be tired right now. You can leave for your home.”

“Thank you, sire.” Louis Philippe stood up from the chair and respectfully bowed before he left for the door. The valet opened it for him, and he came into the corridor. Louis suddenly crossed paths with his friend, the Count of Artois, in a different hall, dressed in his blue National Guard officer uniform. His chest was decorated with the Grand Cross of the Order of Saint Louis, and he wore a red shoulder sash that came with the decoration.

“It’s good to see you again, Monsieur.” He happily shook the Prince’s hand. “You must be leaving off for Lyons, am I mistaken?”

“No, you’re right about that, Monsieur le Prince.” Charles answered as he nodded, “I have to make it there quickly before Bonaparte gets any closer. Every hour counts.”

“I’ve been ordered by the King to go with you as your subordinate. I will catch up with you tomorrow. You will have to be careful while you are out there. The troops down south are ill-disposed towards the regime.” Louis warned.

“Very well, then,” Artois accepted, “If the troops won’t go to the attack, I’ll collect the Garde Nationale. After all, I’m their Colonel-in-chief.”

“That may very well be so. But have no illusions. Buonaparte with 1,000 men of the Vieille Garde isn’t going to be halted by 10,000 Gardes Nationales. Take care it doesn’t give rise to any kind of jealously in the line units, Monsieur.”

Artois nodded in acknowledgment of his advice. “I will look forward to seeing you in Lyons.” Charles and Louis walked together until they both left the Palais des Tuileries by the main front door that led to the Jardin de Tuileries. They both soon entered their carriages parked outside, and the coaches took off in different directions.

From his window, Louis watched Charles’s carriage head south of the city until it was gone out of his sight. He was soon taken back to the Palais-Royal after his coach crossed the Rue de Rivoli. The coachman opened the carriage door, and Louis stepped outside. The driver rode off after Louis came out. He walked up the stone steps until he was at the entrance of his home. Louis entered through the door. Louis realized he had forgotten to take his keys with him to lock the door upon his departure. He felt very sleepy. He soon made it to his room up in the next level of his large home.

Louis took the time in undressing himself, and when he was done, he immediately went straight to his bed. Louis slipped into the sheets, but he had difficulty trying to fall asleep. He was still anxious with a troubled mind. With Bonaparte in France again, he had a feeling regarding the outcome.

_If Bonaparte succeeded, the French nation's artery would be cut, and the bleeding would commence once more._

For the sake of the French people, he hoped Napoléon would fail in his invasion. It took him many long minutes before he finally closed his eyes and fell asleep soon enough.

[1] Louise Philippe was a Premier Prince du Sang, and entitled to be addressed either as either ‘Monsieur le Prince’ or ‘Monsieur le Duc’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will contain an interesting battle scene. The one after that will explain why it was put there. Remember, I've already written all the chapters in advance, so I know what I'm doing.


	15. Bravest of the Brave

November 18th, 1812

Through his spyglass, Marshal Michel Ney somewhat discerned the Russian positions through the fog. It was lighter up toward the gradually climbing snowy heights than at ground level where it was comparatively thicker in most areas, but not to the point he could not partially observe what was laid out in front of him. The Russians were stationed south in his direction, probably aware of his presence since they had brought up many units in opposition to him.

There were the black shako hats and bayonets of the Russian line infantry barely peaking above the crest. Between Ney and the heights occupied by the enemy, there was a ravine that was in the way. Ney briefly lowered his bronze telescope. To the south-west, where he was headed, where the mist was relatively thin, there was a narrow defile, flanked by the heights and the woods, the latter from where he had emerged from. He could not pass through with the enemy overlooking that passage from their elevated positions. They have effectively obstructed Ney’s path to Krasnoi, where he knew His Majesty was expectedly waiting for the arrival of his 3rd Corps that had been appointed as the army’s rearguard. A task he had carried out dutifully earlier this month against the dastardly Cossacks that harassed him at every turn. They still had hounded him since his departure from the city of Smolensk since yesterday. Now, he must deal with the Russian regulars and reach the Emperor’s main army.

_The Russians must be driven off._

There was no other option to take. The grey fog should conceal Ney’s troops if it did not lighten up too much.

It might help them overtake the Russian positions, assisted by the element of surprise.

That was what Ney would count on. He put away his telescope back into the leather pouch attached to his saddle. “This better work.” Ney hopefully said to himself, louder than he meant.

“Were you just speaking to me, Monsieur le Maréchal?”

Ney turned to his mustached, brown, curly-haired aide, Colonel Octave Levavasseur, who had spoken to him. He had forgotten about his staff's presence, including six other mounted aides and Divisional General Jean-Gabriel Marchand. “No, I wasn’t talking to you.” He replied softly. Ney raised his arm and pointed to the enemy. “Do you see those Russians on the high ground in front of us?” He asked Levavasseur.

“Yes, Monsieur le Maréchal. I don’t think they can see us down here equally as well as we could see them up there.”

“These Russians are standing in between us and the Emperor at Krasnoi.” Ney lowered his arm to his side. “We must break through their lines. We will hit them hard and fast. They cannot be allowed to breathe, not even for a brief second. We must press our boots down on their throats and keep it there until they give out.”

“I beg your pardon, Monseigneur, but from the way I see it, the Russians already have the advantage over us.” Octave respectfully objected, displaying concern. The aide then pointed at the terrain laid out in front of their shared view. “By the looks of it, they are already prepared to receive us, and they have the ravine to slow down the advance of our troops before we could then reach the foot of the sloping heights. They can plug in whatever holes we punch into their defenses with any fresh reserves from behind the higher ground. Even if we are successful in penetrating their lines, they will blunt our attack and possibly, throw us back.”

“I’m afraid it is the only way.” Ney adamantly insisted.

“But, Monsieur le Maréchal, surely-”

“That is enough, Colonel Levavasseur.” Ney calmly silenced Octave. “You forget yourself as my subordinate.” He sternly reminded. Ney then selected three of his six aides to gather divisional generals Ricard, Ledru, and Razout to receive their battle instructions. They cantered off.

Octave was the only one he was indeed familiar with, having known him for nine years.

_A surprisingly long-life span for an aide-de-camp._

Ney noted. The rest of the six aides were only strangers, being recent replacements for those who had served under him since the beginning of the invasion of Russia. They all slowly died off, one by one during the campaign. He had already figured they would not last for long, so he never bothered remembering their names, only their ranks.

_A hard thing to do, but it was necessary._

It had not changed for Ney. It was easier when he made sure each of his aides always held a different rank to avoid confusion in calling out to them. His system worked, and he needed it kept that way.

While he waited, Ney casually gandered at his long-serving subordinate General Jean-Gabriel Marchand, who was blowing hot air into his bare hands held together. The clean-shaven, round-faced, brown crop-haired fellow had fought under him frequently in the past seven years, and this campaign was no different. It was only recently when Ney had attached the General to his staff since his 25th Wurttemberg Division ceased to exist as a sufficient fighting force. The survivors were attached to the three divisions of generals Ledru, Ricard, and Razout. Just like Marchand, Ney had seen many of his brigadier generals and other high-ranked officers given commands well below their ranks in his 3rd Corps, now the size of a division.

One by one, each of his aides returned with one of the three generals and their attached pair of mounted aides-de-camp.  
Divisional General François Roch Ledru des Essarts, the combed, blonde-haired, hook-nosed commander of the 10th Division, arrived first.  
A moment later, Ney’s aide returned with the wavy, brown-haired, narrow-faced commander of the 11th Division, Divisional General Jean-Nicolas Razout.  
The third and final aide had ridden back. He brought with him the wavy, brown-haired leader of the 2nd Division. Divisional General Etienne-Pierre-Sylvestre Ricard, whose face was angular with a long, sharp nose.

When his subordinates arrived, Ney explained his battle plans and how the five-thousand troops of his 3rd Corps would be deployed. When he was finished, his generals cantered back to fetch their units from the rear and bring them up to the front.

Marshal Ney brought out his silver pocket watch from the leather pouch. It was at least three o’clock in the afternoon. He oversaw the preparations for his planned attack while keeping a watchful eye on the Russians if they suddenly made any aggressive moves. During the deployment, Ney noticed the fog grew lighter to the point all his units were seen being arrayed before the forest tree line. The mist was noticeably getting heavier toward the enemy-controlled heights. He could not observe the Russians there at all, and he assumed that was also the case with his opponents not seeing him either.

His forces were being arranged as instructed. Checking his rear, the many thousands of civilian camp followers and disbanded soldiers remained in the forest. Unfortunately, Ney knew the latter was made up of the unarmed, weak, wounded, and ill. None were useful as combatants. His corps collected these people when they fell behind from their assigned units belonging to other army corps.

The civilians were not useless. Tailors, gunsmiths, gaiter-makers, shoemakers, musicians, surgeons, and artisans. All useful trades. There were plenty of women. Ney was aware many were prostitutes, wives, or lovers to the soldiers. As vivandières, they sold food and drink to help with logistics as a reliable supplement. They were quite popular, not just for aiding in supplies. It was also because of their bravery for participating in the campaign of their male counterparts. Ney understood that these women's presence boosted the morale of the troops, especially in hard times. Unfortunately, even children made up a tiny minority, as their parents had brought them on the campaign. In his opinion, it was a terrible idea. As a father himself, he was glad his children were far away from any war and safe at home. Ney returned his attention to his troops moving into positions. He rode in and assisted his generals in the deployment.

The arrangement was made in half an hour according to his clock. Ney examined everything from where he was put in the center rear of his deployed troops. His horse gave him the needed elevated view.

The 10th Division was in the rear, put between the forest and the 11th Division placed ahead of them. Ledru’s troops were made up of the 129th Line Regiment, only numbering at around two-hundred men. About three-hundred cavalrymen, composed of both heavy and light, were positioned fifty yards to the left of the 129th. Thirty yards away from their left, in turn, the cavalry would protect the row of twelve pieces of artillery and caissons, placed on the extreme left flank of the 3rd Corps. Ney had put himself between the 129th on his right and the cavalry on his left, giving him an excellent view.

Six infantry columns belonging to General Razout’s 11th Division made up the front line, organized into one horizontal row. It was composed of the line infantry units of the 18th, 4th, and the Illyrian Regiment. The Illyrians were dressed quite similarly to the French light infantry regiments, attired in blue jackets, blue trousers, and white cross belts. Their black shakos had a red plume, as the most notable distinction which belonged to the Illyrians.

The 18th had six-hundred troops. The 4th was smaller, holding about two-thirds of that number. The Illyrian Regiment was the biggest, with twenty-three hundred men. The Illyrian Regiment, divided nearly evenly into four battalions, formed the center. The 18th was located on the left, and the 4th was put on the right.

The 48th Line Regiment was all that made up Ricard’s division. It was seen about fifty yards to the right of the 4th. It would attack alongside the 11th Division. The 48th only had six-hundred fifty men, the size of an understrength battalion.

Ney was grateful for Ricard’s troops, despite their size. He had welcomed and incorporated them into his 3rd Corps days ago when Ricard’s division was separated from Davout’s 1st Corps. Just like their 3rd Corps brothers-at-arms, Ricard’s men would be sent to action.

All his infantry units were deployed into battalion columns, the most favored tactical formation of the French army. Ney’s long years of experience in war had taught him the reason. It was useful for rapid maneuver, especially over uneven terrain, and reliable in changing into square quickly enough against cavalry.

_A good formation, but it was deficient in firepower._

Ney critically analyzed. The terrain was unsuitable for men marching in line.  
Each column was divided proportionally into six companies, but the frontage allowed for only two. The other four companies were put behind according to the exposure of the first two.

Ney frowned at the size of his corps. His surviving regiments had dwindled to the size of weakened battalions or companies, and he had organized them as best as he could with what numbers were available. The rest of his other infantry regiments in the 3rd Corps had been destroyed. The tiny number of survivors was amalgamated with the larger surviving units. He had even collected plenty of armed and capable stragglers of many nationalities from the other corps of the Emperor’s army. They, too, were incorporated into his force.

_Every little bit helps._

With such a heavily diminished corps, there were more officers than men for them to command. It was terrible to the point that even the highest-ranked officers, ranging anywhere from majors to brigadier generals, were either given commands well below their ranks or forced to pick up a musket like a common soldier. Some of the latter was attached to the staff of his divisional commanders to replace dead aides-de-camp.

Ney finished with his inspection. The corps was in a poor state, but he must make the most of it. He sent in his four aides to his subordinates. One of which cantered in the direction of the artillery. Within moments, the drums' banged away, and thousands of marching boots obeyed the beats as the three infantry divisions marched forward. The mounted colonels in charge of those regiments were put behind their units, where the drummer teams were located. His three generals and their staff rode in the rear of their troops.

The cavalry stayed put, protecting the artillery as instructed. The twelve guns fired upon the enemy on the heights. Ney hoped the Russians would be distracted by the guns long enough for his infantry to take them by surprise in using the fog as their cover. His orders included not sending out the skirmishers, so the attack's direction would not be given away. The drummer teams, moving behind each of their assigned regiments, were ordered to be silent during the advance.

Ney stood still as his spot, watching the first-line approach the ravine. The first ranks went down and moved on over to the other side, with some difficulty. The columns of the 10th Division quickly traversed through the ravine in turn and reached the base of the heights. The mist was unexpectedly changing. It became lighter up along the high ground.

The fog was disclosed mainly, and the enemy became were seen. It was much to his horror when the misty cloak revealed something terrifying. The heights' crest was now occupied by a long line of Russian cannons, with the infantry waiting behind the artillery. The fog had not wholly disappeared. It remained, laid out between him and the heights, but the thick natural cloak hiding his troops was gone.

Ney’s artillery ceased fire, now that his infantry reached the bottom and was marching up the slope to engage the Russians. His planned element of surprise was gone.

_Nature, you ruined me._

Ney vaguely heard something, a loud voice, but he could not tell if it came from the enemy or his troops. His question was answered. From right to left, brief, yellow, thunderous flashes, accompanied by clouds of smoke, came to life as each of the Russian guns fired off their rounds one by one, in quick succession. These artillery blasts were received with screams and yells of dying pain from those climbing up the slope. The front ranks of the approaching columns dropped from the volley. Ney realized the Russians were using their canister shot. Hundreds of iron balls spewed forth from the cannon muzzles. It killed or wounded many of those who were marching at the front ranks of the column formations.

Ney saw something happening with the 48th. It slowed down. They, too, had suffered grievously. Men from the rear of that column were running away. Many more men imitated that move. The regiment was being peeled away until the whole formation collapsed, and everyone started retreating in disorder.

The entire first line was on the run, having had enough of the punishment from Russian artillery. Even the 129th turned and ran upon witnessing their comrades running toward them. The fog had dissipated at the worst moment. Nature cruelly denied him a surprise breakthrough.

“Go, all of you! Stop the men from running and restore order to the units!” Ney urgently commanded his aides. They all sallied forth to halt the incoming tide of panicked men. He stopped Marchand from going, with something else in mind. “Général Marchand, take my cavalry and use them to stop the men.”

“I’ll see it done, Monsieur le Maréchal.” Marchand rode to the left to command that body of cavalry.

Within a few minutes, the cavalry arrived and quickly spread itself out, rallying the running infantry. Their efforts were mostly successful. Most of the surviving infantry were rallied and organized back into their regiments. Many dozens of men had run off in different directions under cover of the mist. Ney returned the troops to their original starting positions. The cavalry, too, were reorganized and went back to their spot beside the stationary line of artillery on the far left. Ney’s aides and General Marchand had done their duty and returned to his staff.

Coming out of the forest, his two-horsed wagons, the few flying ambulances, and the limited number of the medical staff that remained behind went forward. They did their best to recover the wounded left behind in the wake of the failed attack. Some of the injured who could walk were limping their way back to friendly lines. The Russian artillery never fired upon the medical staff. The enemy infantry remained idle on the heights.

Not long after Ney’s troops made it back to their positions, he spotted a lone rider coming down from the heights through the light fog. It was a Russian horseman carrying a white flag attached to the end of a lance. Ney turned to Octave on his left. “Colonel Levavasseur. Find out what the Russians want from us.”

Octave rode forward at the canter. He passed through an interval between two battalions of the Illyrian regiment. He cantered out to the middle of the field that divided the two opposing forces. Octave quickly met up with the Russian rider, who emerged out of the ravine. His aide then took the lead, heading on back to French lines with the Russian horseman following him at the canter.

Ney rode forward at the canter with his aides to deny letting the Russian closely examine his badly bloodied units. He came to a stop, well away from the infantry. It was a bit difficult to see, with the mist slowly getting thicker on his side of the field upon taking a glance back. Octave and the Russian met up with him. His aide stayed next to the messenger. The Russian had a youthful appearance, with his combed red hair and long, thick sideburns. The chin was small, and the eyes were green. He looked like an officer, with his green lapeled jacket, white trousers, black knee-high boots, and the same colored bicorn hat was worn sideways.

Octave introduced him to the Russian. The aide-de-camp uttered all his noble titles and his civil rank. When he was finished, the enemy messenger respectfully tipped his hat, a gesture Ney returned.

“Monsieur le Maréchal. It is an honor to be in your notable presence.” The horseman spoke French in a heavy Russian accent and was easily understood through the foreign voice.

“Why have you come to my lines with a flag of truce?” Ney asked. He suspected he already knew the answer to his question.

“Général Miloradovich has sent me to demand your honorable surrender.”

Ney’s eye twitched, feeling almost insulted. “A Marshal of France cannot surrender.” He replied coolly. “You may go back to those who sent you.”

“Please, Monseigneur. Allow me a moment to explain your situation. My superiors, Général Miloradovich and Général Kutuzov have so high an opinion of your courage and talent as a leader of men, that they would never consider proposing to you anything that was dishonorable or unworthy of you. Your surrender is unavoidable. Refusing would only mean further needless bloodshed for both of us, especially for your men. They have already suffered enough. We had attacked your Emperor near Krasnoi, and he is retreating even as we speak. In the aftermath of his defeat, Empereur Napoléon had left behind many thousands of prisoners, large numbers of his guns, and the convoys. Your corps is completely isolated and cut off. What you have in front of you now are eighty-thousand Russian soldiers… Général Miloradovich told me that he does not require an immediate answer from you. There could be a truce, and he will give you a few hours to consider his offer before he sends someone else to receive your response. And, he also wanted me to tell you that you can send some of your officers to verify the numbers of our soldiers if you so wish.”

“Are you done?” Ney rudely asked. He was astounded by the news but did not reveal what he felt on his face. His corps was perhaps days away from the main army.

_Could the Russian be lying?_

Ney quickly discarded the idea. He never heard any distant cannon fire from many miles away. His guns and that of the Russians in front of him were the only ones singing during the day, and it was silent everywhere else.

“You will have two hours to think of your answer, Monsieur le Maréchal.” The Russian messenger turned his horse and rode away, riding on back to the heights.

Ney trotted on back to his lines and passed through the depleted infantry columns. He sent three of his aides with orders to his divisional generals to let their infantry rest and allow them to build up campfires. This truce would be useful in allowing his men to recuperate. All the staff members helped him gather some firewood, getting as many dead fagots as possible. A few weak branches were broken off from nearby trees. When all the wood was gathered, snow was cleared away from a spot on the ground until the grass was exposed. A hole was dug out, using their swords to remove the dirt until it was deep enough. The wood was poured into the hole. A few small stones were found by Octave, and he made a few sparks, setting the twigs on fire. The flames soon consumed all the connecting sticks. Ney, General Marchand, and his staff officers sat around or stood, warming up their extremities from the radiating heat. Ney went back to a nearby tree, where his horse’s reins were tied to a strong branch, and removed the saddle. He returned, placing the saddle on the ground in front of the campfire, and sat down on it. Some staff members copied his idea and fetched the saddles from their horses as improvised chairs. In contrast, others were content to stand idly.

Very little was spoken. Ney was silent. He casually turned his head, observing from place to place within his view. Soldiers were making their campfires all around him. There was the smell of cooking food of whatever they had available. That acutely reminded him of the shortage in rations. When his troops had reached Smolensk days ago, it was almost empty of food. Whatever provisions were available had already been taken up, likely by the Emperor’s main army's leading units. It was hardly surprising, considering his III Corps was tasked as the rearguard of the Grande Armée. Thankfully, a small amount of flour was left behind for his men and some horses that were then slaughtered for their meat.

Ney stared at the dancing flames of the fire in front of him, thinking of his dire situation.

_I will never surrender._

He had already made up his mind. Ney stayed at his spot, letting the fire warm up the front of his body. More firewood was collected over time by several of his aides when the flames were dying out.

Someone was approaching Ney from behind, with his footsteps crushing the snow underneath. He turned his head over his shoulder. There stood a French Fusilier, whose feet were dressed in rags, and the uniform was mostly in tatters. His hands, too, were wrapped with torn pieces of clothing to keep them warm. “Monseigneur, a Russian messenger has arrived.”

“Everyone, mount your horses,” Ney ordered everyone around the fire.

Ney and his staff members readied themselves. The saddles were taken and put back on the backs of the horses. When everything was ready, Ney took the lead, with his staff following him. They all trailed after the Fusilier out of the forest and came outside of the tree line. There was a mounted Russian horseman who was dressed as a hussar. He was attired in a black shako hat with a white standing plume attached to the front side. He was clad in dark blue breeches, a dark green dolman, and the same colored fur-lined pelisse jacket hanging over his left shoulder. A sheathed, curved saber dangled off his belt over the right hip. In his right hand, the Russian held a white flag of truce attached to a small stick.

The Russian greeted him by temporarily removing his hat. “Are you Maréchal de l'Empire, Michel Ney, 1er Duc de Elchingen?” His French was just as good as the previous messenger.

“I am he.”

Just when the Russian was about to speak, a loud, booming noise interrupted him from saying anything. It came from a cannon, but not from one of his own. It came from the enemy’s side. Ney had seen a brief flash out of the corner of his eye. It originated from the right end of the Russian line on the heights. Ney immediately grew incensed at the violation of the truce. He quickly drew out his curved saber, with the tip pressed against the Russian’s chest, ready to plunge it if he tried to leave. “You are a prisoner, sir.” The messenger looked astonished, like he did not expect his side to break the truce so suddenly, especially not during negotiations. “Your people have fired on us while you are in my lines, and that forfeits the protection of your white flag.”

“Monsieur le Maréchal! There is no need for this!” The messenger protested.

“Take him away and have the cavalry guard him!” Ney ordered Octave. His aide rode up, with his curved sword drawn and ready.

The Russian was obliged to dismount when Octave told him to do it. The horse was taken away by another one of Ney’s aides. Simultaneously, the enemy envoy was being escorted by Octave to the small squadron of cavalry on Ney’s left wing.

Ney issued his set of orders to four of his staff officers and Marchand. They all departed, with his battle instructions to his generals. He reviewed them in mind. The line of artillery on his left flank would remain silent until ordered otherwise. Razout’s 11th Division would attack the enemy in the same manner as before and must send a messenger to inform him of the event of a breakthrough. Ney would follow up with the rest of his force. Expecting the possibility of a successful Russian counter-attack, this time, Ledru’s 10th Division and General Ricard’s troops would stay behind to protect the retreat and ensure the safety of the 11th Division if the situation should turn against him. The cavalry squadron, under Marchand’s command, would also assist by staying put and only engage if Razout’s troops should fail in breaking the enemy. They end up retreating, with the Russians following in pursuit. The plan looked good to him.

_Hopefully, it will work for me this time._

The fog still dominated the area between his force and that of the Russians. It had noticeably grown thicker, making it impossible to see the other side where the enemy was located. He could not see his left wing, but his center and the right were still visible to his eyes, with the mist being much lighter in those areas.

By depriving the enemy of the envoy they had sent to obtain his surrender, he calculated the Russians would be left believing the negotiations were still ongoing. They also remained ignorant of the battered state of his units. He was confident that he faced only a fraction of the Russian army’s total strength. Perhaps, only a few divisions or they would have never fought defensively if they possessed overwhelming numbers in the local area.

_The rest of the enemy army must be widely spread out._

Maybe, if he smashed through this obstacle, the main Russian army would be quickly bypassed before they knew his breakout occurred.

_If it went well, my 3rd Corps quickly link up with the rearguard of the Emperor’s retreating army._

The 11th Division was being deployed into their battalion columns. So far, the mist toward the heights had not grown any lighter. It remained as thick as before. Ney was pleased. If it stayed that way, that would be ideal. The fog must not be disclosed as it did before, with horrific consequences for his men.

When everything was ready, Ney sent Octave to order Razout to commence the attack. The drumming was silent, so the Russians would not be warned. The infantry of the 11th Division marched forward with the columns in proximity. Ney made sure it was done, so the units copied each other’s movements within sight of each other, especially when they moved through the mist.

He stayed put at his spot. The fog covered their advance so far. The front ranks entered the dense mist. Soon, the entire 11th Division disappeared into the mist, and the men's backs were no longer seen. So far, it proceeded well, but at the same time, Ney felt nervous. The troops could not be seen.

_The equivalent of walking blindly, not knowing what obstacles lay ahead._

Ney trusted Razout to do what needed to be done. He stayed back. If the attack failed, the defense was required. His presence in the rear would be significant in rallying the retreating men. His anxiousness grew every minute. The Russian cannons were silent. It indicated the advancing troops were unseen by the enemy on the heights. Ney guessed by now, Razout’s men crossed through the ravine and moved up the climbing slope to the summit.

He heard the galloping of an incoming horse approaching from his left. Ney turned. General Marchand appeared out of the fog. “Monsieur le Maréchal. I’ve come to report to you that the mist was starting to clear up in front of our left flank little by little.”

“Did you see anything else, Général Marchand? Was there something different about the Russians?”

Marchand shook his head. “I’m afraid the fog is still too thick for me to see the enemy.”

“I see now. Thank you for the report, Général Marchand. You may return to your post. Even though you can’t see the Russians, tell the artillery to open fire, just purely for distraction. Divert their attention with our fire.” Marchand turned and rode on back, disappearing into the mist.

So far, the fog held up in the center of the field since he still could not tell what was going on in front of him. The Russian guns were still quiet, which was a good thing.

A loud salvo announced itself from his left flank. The twelve guns fired upon the Russians. It should be made clear by now to the enemy that the negotiations have failed. The cannons gave the enemy his reply to their demand for his surrender. If he were lucky, perhaps the Russians would be distracted by the artillery fire. At the same time, his troops advanced upon their center. If the mist remained thick, the Russians would likely be surprised and overwhelmed by his men.

Ney beheld dozens of distant thunderous, large, bright, brief yellow flashes in front of him. Screams of death followed this. Ney could tell that the Russian artillery fired upon Razout’s troops. Was it enough to put the men to a rout like the last time? He had no idea. Mass yelling rose into the air, almost sounded like a battle cry of some kind. Were Razout’s troops screaming as they are running down the slope for their very lives, or were they charging the Russian positions? So far, the enemy artillery had not fired off more rounds.

He glanced to his left. The fog there was still getting lighter, just as Marchand had reported. It was thin enough the cavalry squadron there on his left wing was vaguely seen. His right and center were still quite visible since the mist was just as light as before. Ney rode toward the left flank, hoping to see if there was greater visibility there.

_What is happening with the attack?_

Ney needed an answer to that question. So far, he had not seen a single soldier running away back to friendly lines. That indicated to him that Razout’s troops might still be advancing despite the Russian artillery's terrible volley.

_Had they possibly taken the heights by now?_

He rode past the cavalry squadron’s front and made his way to the artillery line seen farther away to the left. The cannons there were still blindly firing off one round after another and not in full salvos. The crews loaded as fast as they could. The ammunition caisson wagons were placed several dozen yards behind the twelve guns. Men, there were fetching more ammunition and gunpowder bags for the gunners operating the artillery.

Ney halted his horse adjacent to the right flank of the artillery. The fog still concealed the enemy positions. It looked like it was disappearing, but not fast enough. He turned and rode back to his original spot in the center, with nothing observed from the left flank. Along the way, his ears caught the distant sound of a terrifying deep noise. He was familiar with that battle cry. It was coming from the Russians, shouting their long ‘Ura!’ other screams accompanied this. Still, he could not make out what was being uttered with him, not anywhere near the fighting.

He had a terrible feeling, thinking the worst was about to occur. Ney selected two of his aides and sent them off with their quick instructions. Both rode on back to the 48th and 129th regiments.

Ney took in the sight of hundreds of shapes and shadows moving down from the slope. Upon getting closer, and becoming vivid, Ney saw many hundreds or perhaps over a thousand French and Illyrian troops running for their lives in disorganized panic. He even spotted three horsemen coming down among the retreating soldiers. General Razout and his pair of aides were revealed as they were riding back toward the center. Razout went well ahead of his troops. The General turned his horse and rode on back but at a canter. He waved his sword in the air while shouting for his soldiers to be gathered around him. His words had some effect, and many dozens of troops came to him, but most of the running soldiers ignored him or were too scared to listen.

“All of you, with me! Go and rally the men!” Ney ordered his staff officers, and obediently, they rode out to the front, spread out, and collected as many men as possible with strong words of encouragement. Ney, too, assisted, bellowing loudly for the men to stop retreating and form around him. His commanding presence made a strong impact as men, who were running, turned and came up to his side, surrounding him.

His aides, too, were doing well, and they rallied up groups of routing soldiers. It seemed like nearly all the men had been gathered.

_Likely a few used the fog and deserted in different directions._

His aides herded all the troops they gathered to General Razout, who, in turn, reorganized them back into their regiments or what remained of them. His aides returned to Ney’s side. When all the troops were organized into their units, he noticed the 18th were missing their eagle standard, unlike the rest of his French regiments. He assumed the most likely reasons.

_It must have been either lost or captured by the Russians somewhere up at the heights._

Ney distantly caught the tooting sound of a trumpet, which was immediately followed by thunderous, ground-trembling noise. Horses were neighing from a fair distance away. It came vaguely from the right since the trumpet came from there.

_It must be enemy cavalry coming in to attack._

“Colonel Levavasseur, order Général Razout to form his troops into squares.” He then picked an aide who was a captain. “Tell Général Ledru and Général Ricard to do the same, and do it quickly.” His two aides went off in opposite directions. Ney quickly cantered up to General Razout, who was nearly finished organizing his troops into their original positions before the second attack. Octave had already reached him and returned after he gave the General the orders.

“Play the rhythm for the troops to form into their squares, now!” Razout ordered his small group of five drummers beside him. The General sent his aides to the other regiments to follow the same orders.

The drummers were beating their drums according to the order. Razout’s aides returned to him. All the troops of the 11th Division were changing formations at the run. The regiments quickly formed up into squares and deployed in a disorganized horizontal checkerboard manner. Ney followed Razout to the nearest square and went into the hollow center of the 4th Regiment, that was formed on the right flank of what remained of the 11th Division. His second aide arrived from the rear, entered the same square, and reported that the troops in the back prepared for the Russian cavalry as instructed.

The oncoming sound of hooves in seemingly large numbers of enemy cavalry came closer against his right. The comparatively light mist blinded Ney to their numbers.

_Only God could know how many Russians will fall upon us._

The fog had already been clearing up quite steadily in the middle of the field, leaving the enemy center somewhat exposed. If there was a Russian right flank opposed to his left, it was still obscured by the natural grey shield. The mist disclosed along the heights. What Ney observed made his heart drop to his stomach.

Two separate Russian infantry lines were steadily marching side-by-side from the top of the heights and down the slope. The ground leading up to the summit was littered with dead or wounded French and Illyrian troops. It trailed up to the top, making it apparent to Ney that Razout had successfully made it to the crest before he was driven back. Razout was certainly beaten by the very same enemy infantry now descending against him from their original positions. The Russian infantry muskets were shouldered, and they marched down as if they were on parade. Fortunately, they were only the mainstay infantry, men wearing brown overcoats and black shakos.

_If they were Guard troops, I would be in serious trouble._

Ney gandered to his left. The mist there was cleared up gradually. Under Marchand, the cavalry squadron was advancing at a trot three columns, with one following the other in front. They were moving against a nearby incoming body of Russian cavalry of similar if not of greater strength that appeared within the area clear of fog.

The line of twelve guns suddenly opened fire, presumably upon the Russian horsemen coming toward them at the canter. Ney assumed that Marchand had ordered that action. He was glad the General had the sense to take independent action under such circumstances.

Ney turned to his right, where the fog had largely disappeared. There were swarms of Russian cavalry riding against him at the canter in two large line formations, side-by-side, making it look like the moved in a single great linear formation. They were dragoons. Men mounted on heavy brown horses. The riders were dressed in dark green coats and wore helmets with a crest of the same color sticking out from the back, and attached to the front, a yellow bronze plate.

Ney recognized he was in a difficult situation. With cavalry on the right coming in, forcing his troops to form into square and enemy infantry arriving down from the heights. The combined attack could destroy his III Corps. His squares would be deficient in firepower, with only one side allowed to trade volleys with Russian infantry in their line formation.

“Make ready!” The mounted Colonel of the 4th ordered; his sword drawn.

The drums repeated his order, and the men of the square readied their muskets. Trumpets tooted, and in response, the two Russian cavalry lines, cantering together, divided themselves. One line was headed for the right wing of the 11th Division, while the second rode to the rear, likely with the intent of attacking the 10th Division and Ricard’s troops.

“Aim!” The Colonel of the 4th commanded. The men lowered their muskets, but only one side of the square faced the incoming Russian dragoons. The other square formations to the left of the 4th were readying their volleys as well. Put in a checkerboard manner, the sides of some of those squares could fire at the dragoons. Russian trumpets filled the air. The enemy heavy cavalry broke out in a gallop, about sixty yards away, with their swords drawn out.

A few men from the prematurely 4th shot their muskets. “Hold your fire!” The Colonel shouted. The Russian dragoons yelled during their charge. The cavalry line aimed against three infantry squares at once, including the 4th. “Open fire!” Ordered the Colonel. The men from one side of the square released their volley when the Russians were close enough. Smoke obstructed Ney’s view on that one side. There were some neighing and Russian screams.

Similar orders from the other squares were uttered, and several musket volleys greeted the Russian dragoons. The Russians rode around the immobile formations, only to be shot at by men from the other sides of the 4th and the nearby squares.

Musket volleys came from the rear, where Ledru and Ricard were located. It was hard for Ney to tell what was happening there. The smoke from the muskets was continually being produced as the men were firing and reloading at will. Russian dragoons were unable to penetrate the sturdy squares. The dragoons were being shot off from their saddles or brought down to the ground when musket balls hit their horses.

Ney could not tell what was occurring on the far left in the smoke, where Marchand was probably engaged with the enemy cavalry over there. So far, he discerned with his ears that there was still artillery fire. It indicated to him that his left wing had not been destroyed. With his cavalry, Marchand was still active, or otherwise, the guns would have been overwhelmed and silenced. If they were firing their cannons, that was a good sign to him.

He hoped the Russian cavalry would be defeated quickly enough for him. His men must be readily deployed for the approaching Russian infantry. He was glad the enemy dragoons were being wasted upon his men in such a fashion.

_It would have been smarter for them to stay away at a safe distance and simply threaten my infantry with their presence alone._

It would be enough for his square formations to be immobilized. Then the enemy infantry could approach close enough to wipe out his soldiers in a withering fire.

The Russian dragoons rode through the spaces between Ney’s infantry squares. Horses ran off in random directions without their riders, but they avoided the walls of bayonets. A Russian trumpeter tooted the instrument. It was followed by more of the same toots from other trumpets, and the dragoons turned their horses, falling back, well away from the 11th Division’s right flank. The Russian cavalry there started reforming their ranks. Ney switched his attention to the Russian infantry. They were still walking in two lines and were now halfway down the slope.

The enemy dragoons there were still attacking the two infantry squares but in waves, sending in one small group at a time to the rear. Many dragoons shot their pistols either while they rode or stood still at a short distance.

Ney turned to what was happening on his left wing. The cavalry there under Marchand seemed to be reforming behind the line of artillery. Some casualties were laid out between his left flank and the approaching Russian cavalry. There was some fighting, but who was suffering the most?

The blaring of the trumpets made him turn his attention to his right. The Russian cavalry there were galloping in line formation.

“Aim!” The Colonel of the 4th ordered. The men obeyed. When the dragoons were close enough, at around twenty yards, the Colonel shouted, “Open fire!”

The men aiming from the same side of the square initiated their volley. Russian horsemen again rode impudently around the square and were once more greeted by more volleys from the nearby squares. Men and horses dropped to the ground everywhere around the squares. Ramparts of dead riders and horses were building up, surrounding the formations.

The enemy blew their trumpets again. The dragoons rode away in disorder. More toots of the instruments were made, coming from the rear. The enemy cavalry there were retreating in the face of the infantry squares of Ledru and Ricard. The two Russian dragoon formations kept on falling back. It seemed like they decided they had enough of bleeding themselves against Ney’s sturdy infantry. The dragoons reformed well out of the range of his troops. As soon as they did, they retreated in good order, making their way presumably to their original positions, maybe somewhere behind the heights or somewhere close to it. Their numbers looked significantly smaller, perhaps losing a third or more of their dragoons.

In front, the Russians had nearly reached the bottom of the slope, with the ravine as their only obstacle. Ney rode up next to the commander of the 11th Division. “Général Razout, you must quickly put your troops into line and engage the Russian infantry coming against our front. I do not think the Russian cavalry on our right will be troubling us any time soon. I think they’ve uselessly blown out their strength, rendering them too weak to make another charge.”

“Monsieur le Maréchal. What about the activity on our left wing?” Razout worriedly inquired. “I’ve noticed the Russian cavalry were attacking us there.”

Ney looked over there. The fighting still raged. The artillery there was silent—Marchand’s cavalry, formed in three columns, charged piecemeal against the Russians moving in line. Ney realized the risk it could turn out badly for Marchand, and his infantry, in turn, would be assailed by the Russian cavalry there. But if several infantry units on the left end of the 11th Division remained their square formations, there would be fewer regiments to confront the approaching Russian infantry. A decision must be made and a calculated risk taken. There was no safe option. He could deprive himself of one or two regiments as a precaution if Marchand’s cavalry were defeated. In doing so, he risked his infantry line crumble against the numerically superior Russian force approaching from the heights. His second option allowed him to use all his foot units against the Russian infantry and take the chance of being rolled up by enemy cavalry on the left. But his infantry would be strong enough to challenge the Russian line units and, maybe, even push them back.

There was still the possibility if Marchand prevailed, he could charge the exposed Russian infantry on their flank. There was no other choice that offered a better likelihood of surviving the day. Finally, Ney made up his mind and looked back at his subordinate. “Général Razout. We will use all our infantry to beat the Russians coming from the heights.” He firmly decided. “I believe that Général Marchand will prevail in the end.”

“May God grant us victory. Monsieur le Maréchal” Razout seemed nervous over Ney’s decision.

“Général Razout, gather your troops and immediately confront the Russian infantry. I will send word to Général Ledru and Général Ricard to commit their troops on the flanks of your 11th Division.”

“Monsieur le Maréchal. I will hold off the Russians long enough for that support to arrive.”

“You better, Général Razout.” Ney rode out of the 4th square with his aides following him to the rear, where the reserves are located in front of the forest's tree line. The 48th and the 129th were still formed in their squares.

“Colonel Levavasseur, tell Général Ledru to place his regiment adjacent to the 11th Division’s right flank, and assist Général Razout in repelling the Russian infantry he will be confronting.” Ney turned to his red-headed inferior-ranked aide. “Sous-lieutenant. Give my order to Général Ricard for him to send his infantry on Général Razout’s left wing, with the same purpose in defeating the Russians coming against our front.”

Both aides rode off, with each heading for one of the two squares. Ney and the rest of his aides turned their horses to the front. They rode to the rear of Razout’s infantry regiments, now quickly forming up into their line formations at the run. Still, they were much thinner than the typical three-ranked ones, which were expected. With all his regiments having suffered uneven casualties, the sizes varied and were adjusted according to their available numbers. It looked like to him that Razout wanted to stretch out his infantry units thinly until each of his regiments were formed up two-ranks deep. Ney approved.

_It should maximize their firepower against the more numerous Russians coming against their front._

But the infantry would be left vulnerable to any cavalry charge. It took longer for a line to form into a square, especially if it was stretched out. In the center, where the Illyrian units were positioned, he could tell that they had been amalgamated from their original four battalions to two and were formed into their two-ranked deep lines.

The 18th was put on the left of the Illyrian center, and the 4th was on the right. They, too, were stretched out in the same manner, but not too much, it seemed, since they had relatively low numbers. In total, Ney was certain that Razout’s stretched-out infantry was nearly on an equal frontage with the incoming Russian troops.

Drumming beats came from behind him. Ney glanced back. Levavasseur and his second lieutenant were riding to him at a gallop. The two other infantry regiments there were marching in columns. They were advancing to either one of the two flanks of the 11th Division. Ney returned his attention to the front.

Before Razout’s troops, the Russian infantry's first ranks Ney estimated, roughly, that the enemy infantry was somewhere between fifty to seventy yards away from his troops.

_Within effective musket range._

Ney observed Razout’s two aides cantering down along behind the rear of the entire infantry line. They spoke briefly with the colonels seen behind their regiments before they moved on. Not long after whatever orders were passed down from the chain of command, the small number of drummers adjacent to the colonels pounded their instruments. Numerous voices from the officers among the line infantry shouted orders of the same meaning.

“Forward!”

“Advance!”

“March!”

The whole infantry line of the 11th Division marched forward almost at the same time. The drummers pounded a steady rhythm while keeping pace with the infantry. Ney was a bit surprised by that move. He expected that Razout would have simply stayed in his place and defend against the Russians. He never anticipated his General doing the opposite.

_It is either a smart decision or a dumb one._

Only time would tell. Ney speculated that Razout wanted to engage the Russians as early as possible, with the ravine in the enemy's backs, to make it impossible for them to maneuver or change formation. Going forward or retreating were the only ways out for the Russians.

There was an artillery salvo made from the left wing. Ney turned his head there. Marchand’s cavalry was reforming behind the twelve guns. This time, it appeared they were about to charge in line formation against the Russians horsemen also formed in the same manner.

_Who is winning?_

The artillery should help cause havoc among the enemy cavalry. Would it be enough to assist Marchand in defeating the Russians there? He had no idea how many cavalry units the enemy possessed. Still, they certainly had a more significant number than his three-hundred horsemen. He reasonably guessed that Marchand’s squadron suffered heavily, but they were not broken. Even though they held out quite well so far, Ney knew better than to expect they would fight to the death. His cavalry would fail if they were too weak for another charge. Defeating the Russian infantry quickly enough removed the risk of being attacked by the enemy cavalry if Marchand lost. How long would Marchand last by then?

_Hopefully, just long enough._

Razout’s long continuous line of infantry closed the narrowing gap between them and the Russians, who already entirely made it through the ravine. The General’s aides rode to the colonels of the diminished regiments. They, in turn, relayed those orders to the drummers. The drumming beats filled the air, and officers among the infantry ranks shouted their commands for the men to halt. The two combined Illyrian battalions in the center stopped first. The 4th and then the 18th on the flanks ceased marching a short moment later. The lines redressed evenly in the face of the approaching Russian infantry, still marching with their arms shouldered, even while they were well within Razout’s musket range. The Russians halted their advance, obeying their drum beats and voices of their officers.

Countless French and Illyrian voices were being shouted down along the units. The Russians were preparing for their volley as well. There was the simultaneous crackle of a single volley from the right end. The 4th there independently fired at the enemy. The Russian section of the line, facing Razout’s left wing, shot off their volley. The 18th and the Illyrian battalion, beside the former, responded the same way, delivering their separate volleys in close timing. The second Illyrian battalion placed adjacent to the 4th, fired at the Russian section they opposed. The enemy infantry replied, giving a disciplined discharge of round lead.

After both sides finished exchanging formal volleys, Ney’s troops and the Russians immediately fired away at each other as fast as they could. There were too many shots to count for every passing second. All along the line, smoke rose, blocking his view. Only yellow winks were seen.

Ney rode down behind the 11th Division’s rear while shouting words of encouragement for the men to keep on shooting. Toward the left end, Ney beheld the 48th’s arrival and was forming up into a three-ranked line right next to the left flank of the 18th.

General Ricard’s aide cantered to the 48th Colonel. The drummers' beats were relayed to the rank and file of the regiment. Obeying their officers' words, the troops readied their muskets, lowered them, aimed at the enemy. The front rank of the 48th unleashed their volley and commenced reloading. The infantry there started firing at will afterward.

Ney galloped when he noticed the rear of the 18th slowly giving ground. “Hold your position!” He yelled, brandishing his sword in random directions. “You will all stay at your posts!”

His words prevented the men from moving any further backward, and they stayed at their spots. The officers in the rear reinforced his commands. The 18th grew smaller as casualties mounted up. It was the same with every other regiment. Men at the front, being shot down, were replaced by those from the second line. The lines became shorter, closing in toward the center from the ends of each unit. They all dutifully stood at their posts, trading lead with the Russians.

_Who would give in first?_

To his right, Ney saw General Razout’s aides riding behind the infantry lines, passing down their orders to the colonels before moving on to the next one. One of which passed by him, heading for the 18th. The drummers behind each unit made their musical beats. In response, the whole line of the 11th Division moved forward while shooting at the Russians, but at a slow walk. The 48th and the 129th, the latter had not reached their destination, were both left behind. Still, they too accompanied the 11th Division’s advance, carrying out Ney’s order to support Razout’s troops.

Ney switched his attention to the fighting on his left wing. There was no engagement there. It was finished, and he was pleased knowing who was victorious. There were countless bodies of men and horses in the aftermath of the battle. Marchand’s cavalry was reforming in the rear of the line of artillery. The opposing Russian cavalry was nowhere in sight. They must have retreated, given up trying to break his left flank. “Colonel Levavasseur. Order Général Marchand to take his cavalry and attack the Russian infantry’s flank.”

“At once, Monsieur le Maréchal.” His aide galloped toward Marchand. Ney could hardly believe his fortune.

_This is perfect._

The Russians were nearly beaten. Only their infantry remained. His cavalry should be enough to roll up the enemy or force them to retreat. The entire front line was still advancing against the Russians. Their fire never ceased. It was difficult to tell what the Russians in front of them were doing. The continuously produced smoke from the hundreds of muskets down along the entire line was blocking his view. Even by standing up on his stirrups, he could not pierce through the density very well. He observed only vague movements.

_Were the Russians retreating or advancing?_

Suddenly, the Illyrians in the center went in at the run, yelling their battle cries. The left and right sides followed in the same manner. They were all going in for a bayonet charge. There was no crash. The whole line kept on charging. Ney rode after his charging troops. The smoke disclosed a bit. Ney saw Russians running away a little ahead of them, climbing out of the ravine and up the slope. The whole French-Illyrian line slowed down, and then it halted in front of the ravine. The men brandished their muskets and shakos in the air, cheering for their victory. It indeed seemed like the Russians had given up, but only for today, he guessed.

_Another battle like this would likely destroy what remained of my 3rd Corps._

His aide, Octave, returned a few minutes after the Russian infantry had been sent running. He wondered why it took so long for his aide to return. “Monsieur le Maréchal. I had delivered your order for Général Marchand’s cavalry to charge. Still, by the time I was returning to you, I saw what happened. So, I took the liberty of going back to cancel that order and give you a casualty report from the left wing. Général Marchand took a quick count of what remained of his cavalry, and out of three-hundred combatants. He lost one-hundred-ninety-five dead and wounded.”

“I see.” Nearly two-third of his cavalry were wiped out, but they must had bled the Russian cavalry quite heavily, perhaps killing two enemy horsemen for every one he lost. Ney turned his horse and rode on back toward the tree line.

During the ride to the small forest, Ney picked three of his aides, and ordered them to obtain a count of how many men remained in the infantry and tell the generals to return to the trees with the men and let them rest there. Reports would be given to him at the dug-out firepit.

Ney rode through the trees and returned to the spot where that firepit was built. He dismounted and tied the reins to a nearby low hanging tree branch. The wood was burned out. His remaining available aides were instructed to find firewood, and he did the same, going out and picked out whatever little pieces he found. It took some time before he and his four other aides collected enough firewood, some of which were thin branches either broken or hacked off. The burned-out timber was removed and replaced by the new kind. A fire was started when one of his aides used two rocks and initiated a spark on some gunpowder poured out on the wood.

Ney returned to his horse, removed the saddle, and placed it in front of the firepit as his improvised chair. His other aides did the same thing.

Soon after Ney sat down to enjoy the warmth from the fire, his aides returned, one by one, giving him their reports of the casualties sustained. In adding the figures, rounding up the numbers, only about three-thousand men remained of his 3rd Corps. His three other generals had survived the battle. Razout was wounded in the head, according to the report from his last returning aide. Two-fifth of his corps had been lost in the fight today. The three aides who returned had their horses secured to nearby trees and used the saddles like chairs in front of the fire.

Ney casually observed many more campfires were built by the soldiers and brought to bright life. The air was filled with the scent of cooking food. Many men ate some of the meager rations they had in their knapsacks and shared them with some of the civilians and unusable soldiers who stayed behind in the forest.

_Now, there are probably two civilians and weak troops for every one soldier who still carried a musket._

Not far from where he sat in front of the firepit, Ney saw two men from a different campfire, sharing a single bottle of what he was probably alcohol. Under other circumstances, he made sure his men avoided getting drunk, especially before a battle. Still, right now, they would not be deprived of their comfort, especially not after the hell, they had all gone through.

Ney selected four of his aides and sent them to fetch Marchand and his three other generals for a meeting here. He reached around, opened the leather pouch attached to the saddle, reached in, and pulled out his large folded map of Russia. It was not well drawn out, and it gave him vague details, but it was better than nothing. He examined it for some time before he folded the paper and returned it to the pouch. He waited for many minutes until he heard the sound of snow being crushed under many hard footsteps coming from behind him. He looked over his shoulder. There were his four mounted generals, who had all arrived together side by side along with their accompanied aides-de-camp that were all on horseback.

“Please, come and warm yourselves up.” Ney invited. His generals dismounted, giving the reins to their aides, and came around to the blazing firepit, warming up their bare or white-gloved hands and other extremities. He saw that underneath General Razout’s bicorn hat, he wore a bloody head bandage covering a wound on his forehead. “How is your wound, Général Razout?” Ney asked with concern, hoping the head wound was not too severe. It would not do him any good to lose his excellent subordinate.

Razout nodded, “It’s not serious. A Russian bullet grazed me.” He winced painfully from the bandaged head wound, “I was fortunate to have survived…unlike so many others.”

“I pray that wound of yours isn’t fatal.” Ney hopefully said. “I do not wish to lose you.”

“I believe I will be all right, Monseigneur,” Razout assured. “The surgeon told me I would be fine.”

Ney was doubtful. Men died from battle wounds which were considered minor. He had learned that appearances were deceiving regarding injuries sustained in combat. He feared that might be the case for General Razout. “I think it would be best for you to rest and let the surgeon take further care of your injury. Your head wound might aggravate to the point it could turn fatal.”

“I assure you, Monsieur le Maréchal, I will be just fine.” Razout respectfully insisted, treating the issue with little worry. “There are others who are hurt worse than I. They require the attention of the surgeon more than I do.”

“If you believe you will be fine, then I will let you continue your duties, but if your wound gets worse, then let me know, and I will let you rest for your head to heal.”

“I will do just that, Monsieur le Maréchal.”

“Good,” Ney turned to the rest of his generals, who were all waiting for him to get started with the meeting. “When night arrives, we will leave. Another battle will certainly destroy what remains of this corps.”

“Where will we be leaving off to, Monseigneur?” Ledru asked.

“Now that the Russians have blocked our route, we will be getting out of here and head back north-east toward Smolensk before we march west,” Ney answered. “The Emperor is no longer at Krasnoi right now.” He announced. His subordinates glanced worriedly at each other.

General Ricard spoke up next. “Monseigneur, what made you think that the Emperor is no longer at Krasnoi? Surely he must still be there waiting for us.”

“Général Miloradovich’s first messenger was trying in vain to frighten me into capitulation by telling me that the Emperor had been beaten at Krasnoi and is still retreating,” Ney explained.

“First messenger? Did the Russians send in another one?” Ledru inquired curiously.

“Yes. They did. The first envoy gave me a truce to think about their terms for my surrender after our attack had failed. The second one arrived to obtain my response. I took him prisoner after the Russians fired down upon us, breaking the truce. By doing so, I was able to deprive the enemy of information regarding the state of the 3rd Corps.”

“Perhaps, the Russians have fired upon us by accident?”

“Maybe, but that is not important right now,” Ney said.

“…Monseigneur, I have a few questions.” General Ricard said. Ney permissively nodded. “Did this first messenger come before or after we made our first attack?”

“It happened after, Général Ricard.”

“I do not mean to act disrespectful, Monsieur le Maréchal. Why did you order us to attack again, knowing that the Emperor was no longer at Krasnoi?”

“I did so because I knew that if we did not quickly punch our way through, then the enemy would have time to gather and use their full force of eighty-thousand men to destroy us. I am still sure that the Russians blockading us now make up only a small part of their army. It was because of that reason I was certain we could crush our small opposition and bypass the main Russian army before they could come down upon us with all their men. Are you suggesting that we should have surrendered, Général Ricard?”

“No, Monseigneur. When you have told us that you knew the Emperor was gone, I only wanted to know why we attacked the second time. It simply did not make any sense to me, but that changed. Now, you have divulged your reasons for initiating the battle. It made sense now.”

“Good.” Ney then addressed to everybody. “Now that you know the Emperor is not at Krasnoi, it looks like we are truly cut off, and we will have to find another way to reach the main army. I’m certain that His Majesty is still heading westward to get to the next largest supply depot at the city of Minsk like he had originally planned to do…and so, that is where we will go.”

“I suppose that makes sense, but there is a problem. We don’t have enough food supplies to get to Minsk.” Razout grimly pointed out. “There was already little food in Smolensk by the time we had arrived there just two days ago. On top of that, we do not know how far away the Emperor has marched, assuming he had retreated westward. It is something we do not know for certain. We could be days away from reaching him, and we have no idea where the Emperor and his army are exactly located even if we do march west.”

Ney knew that Razout had a good point. “That is why we must gain a head start by leaving tonight and quickly discover the Emperor’s whereabouts there ourselves. Général Razout, you will be relieved to know that the city of Orsha is only half the distance from here. We have a smaller supply depot there. Maybe, even the Emperor will pass through that city.” Ricard looked cheered up by the good news. Ney spoke to all the generals present. “I know that we have fallen behind, but if we work together, then we will extract ourselves out of this predicament.”

Ledru appeared doubtful. He spoke. “The Cossacks will notice our trail soon enough, and they will try to whittle us down however way they can. The weather will only make it worse for all of us and further dwindle our numbers.” He lowered his head. “I am not sure if we will even survive this.” He remarked despondently.

“Bah! Do not say that again.” Marchand chastised his colleague. “The Cossacks will not be a serious issue.” He boldly stated, “They are cowards. They will not dare to attack us if we stay together in a solid group. Our boys will shoot them out of their saddles if they stupidly get too close to us.”

Ney nodded, agreeing. “Yes, they will keep their distance. The Cossacks will try to pick off any stragglers and small isolated groups. If we stay together, then the Cossacks will not be able to do much harm to us. We can handle the pursuing enemy cavalry as long as we don’t get tangled up with any large Russian infantry units during our escape.” He added. “We must rejoin the Emperor’s main army no matter what happens. Surrender is not an option for us to take regardless of the circumstances. Do you all understand what I’m asking of you?”

His four generals all nodded. “Should we abandon the artillery, Monseigneur?” Ledru asked. “It will only slow us down in our escape.”

Ney shook his head, “No, we may need that artillery if our situation badly deteriorates. We will abandon it only as a last resort when there are no other options left.”

“Understood, Monsieur le Maréchal.”

“Tell the men to prepare themselves to leave tonight discreetly. I do not want the observing Russians to think we are up to anything they might perceive to be odd. They may launch a preemptive attack and disrupt our plans to get out of sight. I want all of you to have your men maintain their guard by the time we leave tonight, and I want the men to gather enough wood to keep the campfires burning for many hours right after we have left this place. It will fool the Russians into believing we will stay the next day.”

“We all fully understand, Monseigneur,” Marchand said on behalf of everyone.

“Good…you all can leave now.” Ney dismissed them all with a wave of his hand. His generals took their leave. He stared at the dancing flames of the fire in front of him. He was nervous and afraid. He had never been in a serious situation like this before in his whole life as a soldier. His chances of surviving seemed abysmally small in his favor. Supplies were low, the number of troops was severely diminished, and he knew the Russians might trap him if he did not immediately try to escape. He must push himself to his very limits and possibly beyond it. His efforts to escape could very well destroy what remained of his 3rd Corps, but surrender was an option he would never accept. His blood simmered at the thought. He was a Marshal of the Empire, and he would never dishonor himself by giving up!

_What would the Emperor and the whole of France think of me then if I had chosen the easy way out?_

No, he would fight his way through to reach safety, despite the odds stacked up against him. That was a promise Ney intended to keep or die trying.


	16. Unknown Assignment

_March 6 th, 1815_

Michel Ney opened his eyes, waking up from his sleep, and glanced at his surroundings. He sighed in deep relief. He was still in his mansion and beneath the thick white sheets of his warm bed. It was again that terrible dream of one of his worst experiences. Ney stared at the ceiling while in thought, thinking about how he had survived it all and rejoined the Emperor’s army near Orsha.

The 3rd Corps he led was virtually destroyed by the 20th of November, three years ago. Ney remembered he only saved eight-hundred survivors and some of the unarmed stragglers. A small fraction of his division-sized corps had lived, despite the relentless nature of the weather, and relentlessly attacked by the damned Cossacks.

Thousands of camp followers, unarmed stragglers, and half of his corps were unfortunately left behind at one point during the retreat due to sudden circumstances which could not be solved. It was another detail he hated thinking about. He knew not all the events were strictly his fault. However, Ney still felt responsible overall, from the beginning of that disastrous battle to the end when he rejoined the main army two days later.

_I’ve first sent them to their deaths in battle, and then I had failed to keep them safe in the retreat._

Since the war ended a year ago, Ney had all the time to reflect on his actions in the past, especially about the battle he had dreamt of and the following two days afterward. Admittedly, he had made many mistakes as a commander in his long career. Back then, he usually viewed it strictly from a military perspective regarding how his mistakes negatively influenced some of the fought battles. 

He regretted the loss of life because of his faulty decisions and wished he had done better in hindsight. In war, Ney never allowed human emotion to interfere with his duties and ability to make hard decisions, including sending soldiers to their likely deaths for the sake of winning. If he could, he always pragmatically tried to preserve his soldiers from dying needlessly.

_Perhaps I could have done something different and avoided that battle_.

A useless hypothetical thought. Displaying calm, strength, and cold indifference to the hardship and horrors of war was necessary. The soldiers always looked up to him for leadership and inspiration in difficult times. In turn, they were expected to perform their duty to him. Ney had occasionally felt pity for those who died under his command in the past, but it was never personal.

That battle with the Russians and the further attrition in the following two days had dangerously diminished his corps nearly to the point of nonexistence.

_A mistake that was worse than my blunder at Jena._

He usually felt a sense of being incompetent whenever he reflected upon his memory of the fight and aftermath, having saved less than one-fifth of his corps since the departure from Smolensk. Even at the Battle of Jena, he preserved his troops' bulk despite his error when he had pushed too far ahead and gotten surrounded by the Prussians before Marshal Lannes rescued him. 

Unfortunately, that nightmare in Russia was not over for his men. They overcame more obstacles before they at long last reached friendly soil. His seemingly miraculous escape from the Russians' clutches had earned him his famous nickname from the Emperor himself upon their reunion a little later after his arrival at Orsha.

_The ‘Bravest of the Brave,’ a simple nickname, in exchange for the lives of nearly all my men and thousands of ordinary people I have lost in those two horrible days of hell._

Ney mournfully reflected. During this time of peace, it was not the first time he questioned whether he had truly earned the Emperor’s praise for what he did. He felt that the cost was too much. Ney wondered if any of the men from the 3rd Corps were still alive today, even after two years of fighting, first in Russia, next in Germany, and then finally in France. Perhaps a tiny handful of the men were still alive in the army, or they were all dead, buried in their unmarked graves in all three different places that came to mind.

It was still night, but the noisy crickets made it hard for him to fall back to sleep again. He moved his left hand to the side underneath the sheets and unknowingly brushed his fingers against something. Ney turned his head, for he had forgotten about the presence of his wife on the bed. Aglaé Louise slept peacefully in her white nightgown. He closed the gap until he pressed his body up against her back and placed his right hand upon the edge of her hip. It felt small in his hand; it made him curious how his sweet wife gave him four children without much difficulty in each birthing. He was glad his wife never endured that issue. Aglaé moved her body up against him.

“Are you having trouble trying to sleep?” Aglaé tiredly asked of him. Her voice always sounded like a soft song to his ears.

Ney wrapped his hand around her belly, and then her legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets. He relished the bodily warmth he felt while he cuddled with Aglaé. “I just had a bad dream of a memory.” The recollection had visited him frequently in his sleep compared to other similar dreams. He wanted to forget about the horrific things he had seen during the retreat from Russia. Still, those remembrances never went away, much to his torment. He had never talked about what happened during those two days with his wife before in detail. It troubled him too much. Perhaps, it was time for him to make peace with it at last.

“Do you want to tell me what it was all about?”

Ney pulled her up against him, seeking more comfort, and she let him. He gathered his courage and began. “Do you know the nickname the Emperor had once called me by when everything had turned against us in Russia?”

“You were called the ‘Bravest of the Brave.’ You told me about it after all, but you never explained why. You left me to assume that it was because of your heroic deeds in Russia.” Aglaé turned her head and looked back at him over her shoulder. Her face was hidden in the dark, but the smooth black outlines made it clear she was looking at him. “Did something terrible happen while you were there?”

Ney sorrowfully nodded. “It was hardly heroic.” He began. “In two days, I ended up nearly losing what remained of my entire corps of five-thousand men along with seven-thousand civilians and unarmed soldiers.” He held her more tightly. “My biggest regret is that I did not save most of them. I could also have avoided the one battle I had fought altogether and saved a lot of my men, and perhaps, all those that accompanied my corps.” He paused momentarily, hating himself. “They looked to me to see them to safety…and I failed them as their leader. Their bones would forever be buried in Russia because of my decisions.”

Aglaé turned herself completely around, faced him directly. She placed her hand on his smooth face and slowly stroked his cheek affectionately. “Try not to think about it so much, dearest.”

“I can’t help it…it’s there in my memories, and there it will stay until the last day I draw my final breath.”

Aglaé leaned in and pressed her lips against his mouth. He returned it, pulling her up to him until both of their bodies were pressed together as one. “You should not be so hard on yourself. Not everything is your fault.”

Ney wrapped his arms around his wife, squeezed her, wanting more inner relief. “No, their deaths are my fault. I fear that I will be judged by God Himself for making such a decision in the end. I could have saved at least most of my people, led them out of that frozen Russian wasteland somehow, and then finally into safety.”

“You’re a good man, Michel.” Aglaé consoled. “God knows that as much as I do. We all make mistakes in our lives.”

Ney knew she meant well in her words, but he slightly frowned at the last part she uttered. It sounded almost too casual and thoughtless. A wave of sudden anger grew without his permission. He quickly quieted it, breathing it out softly through his nose. He felt calm again. “But have you ever made a mistake that ended up costing the life of another human being? I did, and it was paid for with the lives of thousands. Do you have any idea what it is like to make decisions that send hundreds to many thousands to their deaths?”

“Don’t speak to me like I am an idiot, husband!” She sharply replied. “I am not a soldier, but I do understand what it is like to lose a loved one forcibly. I had to make peace with myself, knowing that my mother had committed suicide decades ago. I’ve also had to deal with the death of my father, who died this year. Having you as my husband and being a mother to four boys helped me cope with my parents' loss over time. Don’t presume to lecture me regarding death. I know it all too well.”

Ney felt terrible when he realized he was unnecessarily harsh. “I’m sorry, love.” He was glad he did not let his hot-headed nature get the best of him. Ney had disciplined himself. His temper never interfered in arguments with his wife. She was too precious to him. His anger was a curse he carried with him for as long as he remembered.

“Just do not do it again. I hate having arguments with you.”

“I understand,” He affectionately ran his fingers through her long silky dark brown hair, not saying a word for many minutes as he touched the strands. His eyes adjusted to the dark to the point he saw her round, dark eyes, sharp nose, and heart-shaped face. “Let’s go back to sleep.” He said nothing more to Aglaé. Just as he and Aglaé were about to sleep again, he heard a nearby creaking wooden sound. Ney and his wife both sat up straight and turned to where the source of the noise. The door to their bed-chamber was slowly opening. In the open doorway, there stood a small boy.

“Mommy. Daddy.” The boy spoke up in his naturally babyish voice. Ney immediately knew it was Edgar, his youngest and smallest son.

“Hello, son, what are you doing this late up in the night? Is there something wrong?” Ney was concerned for Edgar. His youngest son never came into his quarters at night before.

“Daddy, I had a bad dream…can I sleep with you and mommy?” Edgar hesitantly approached.

Ney was relieved there was nothing serious that troubled his son. Before he could answer, Aglaé spoke up invitingly to their son with open arms, “Come here, my sweet boy.” She said very sweetly.

Edgar rushed on over to his mother’s side of the bed, climbed up, and slipped in-between him and his wife. Aglaé had Edgar in her slender arms with her delicate fingers running through his dark brown hair. He favored his mother’s looks with the same face shape, sharp nose, and brown eyes. A handsome fellow. “You don’t have to be scared.” She spoke softly into Edgar’s ear. “Bad dreams are not real. You can tell your father and me about it if it helps you, my boy.” 

Edgar lifted his head, looked at his mother first, and then switched his attention to him next. The boy curled up the sheets and rubbed them nervously in his hands. “My dream was really bad and looked very real to me.”

Ney scooted up next to his boy. “Whatever it was, all you need to do is keep on telling yourself that it is not real.”

“What was your dream all about, Edgar?” Aglaé asked.

Edgar laid back against his mother. “A huge wolf, standing on two legs, was after me.” He slowly began, “I ran away, but it was catching up to me. I tripped over a small rock and fell. Just as it was about to hurt me, I just woke up.” Edgar nibbled on his thumb. Ney knew his son well enough. He always bit his thumb whenever he was frightened. “I have been having this same dream for weeks now.”

“Why didn’t you come to see us sooner?”

“I was too scared to talk about it, and I thought that you would laugh at me,” Edgar admitted, looking a little embarrassed.

Aglaé hugged her son up against her chest while kissing the top of Edgar’s head. “Your father and I would never laugh at you. You do not have to worry about being scared. It’s only a dream. Monsters are not real.”

“Speaking of a wolf, haven’t you ever heard of the story of the infamous Beast of Gévaudan, Edgar?” Ney inquired, and he smirked when his wife’s eyes widened. His son seemed curious, contrary to what he had expected of Edgar.

“Edgar does not need to hear this from you and get even worse nightmares.” She protectively shielded Edgar from him. “What kind of a father are you? Do you derive pleasure in scaring your son?” She accused.

Ney sighed with annoyance, “Edgar may be a boy, but he does not have to get scared. The sooner he faces his fears, then the better off he will be in life.”

“What you are suggesting is just lunacy,” Aglaé argued back. “Edgar is only three years old.”

“Well, at least it has a good ending if that makes you feel any better.” Ney simply replied without raising his voice, bearing in mind his little son's presence in the bed.

“What does?” Edgar asked, putting an immediate end to the small argument.

Ney looked at his son. “There is a good ending to the story of the Beast of Gévaudan. I can tell you all about it if that is what you want.” He offered.

“No.” Aglaé firmly objected.

Ney was exasperated. He was not in the mood to continue this discussion. It was a stupid one to him. “Just let him decide for himself on what he wants to hear. You can’t keep him as a little boy forever.”

Aglaé did not argue back. She looked down at Edgar in her arms. “I’m afraid your father is right. I’ll let you decide if you want to hear this story from him.”

A brief silence followed. The boy’s gaze was set downward, likely in thought. Ney’s son looked up at him. “I want you to tell me the story, daddy.”

Ney was not entirely convinced. “Are you sure about that, Edgar? The story you want to hear is quite scary. I can tell it to you at a different time when you are a little older.”

Edgar again contemplated about it for a short moment before he spoke. “I want you to tell it to me.”

“So, you are not afraid of scary creatures?” Ney asked with a scrutinized look. His son turned away from his piercing stare. “I’ll tell you what.” Ney started, “If you can get over your fear of monsters in your dreams, then I will tell you about the story of the Beast of Gévaudan. Can you do that for me, son?”

Edgar nodded several times, “Yes, daddy.”

Ney smiled. His son was growing up. “Good, that is what I wanted to hear from you, son.”

“Can I still sleep with you and mommy for the rest of the night?” Edgar asked hopefully.

Ney decided to let this go just this once. “Alright, but just this one time, Edgar. After that, I want you to promise me that you will stay in your room at night even if you have bad dreams.”

“I promise, daddy,”

Ney proudly ruffled his son’s hair, “That’s my good boy.” He slipped back underneath the bedsheets, faced his wife, who shared her pillow with their son, and he closed his eyes.

Ney woke up, and he still felt tired. The morning was early. He rubbed his eyes. Too much time was spent awoke during that night.

_A cup of coffee, and then later, a warm bath._

It sounded like a good idea; he had not washed in some time. He came up to a corner of his room, where there were two black, finely carved ten-foot-tall wardrobes. One of which belonged to him, and the other was for his wife. He opened the one on the right-hand side, revealing three neatly organized piles of folded clothing.

Ney found what he was searched for in one of those piles and pulled out his brown fur-lined robe. A pair of white socks were taken from one drawer, and a couple of low-heeled buckled black leather shoes from inside of another. His black riding boots had been set aside on the floor next to the wardrobe. Ney looked at the pair of footwear. He frowned; they were a little dirty and covered in a thin layer of dust.

_Some water and polishing would make them look brand new._

After Ney slipped on his socks, shoes and put on the robe over his white sleeping undergarments, someone softly knocked on his door. Aware he had on his footwear, Ney trod carefully on the wooden floor to avoid disturbing his son and wife. Ney made it to the door and opened it just enough for him to see who was behind it. His housemaid, Angelique, stood in the doorway. She was dressed in her white apron and had her long dark brown hair tied in a knot at the back of her head. She appeared worried. “I am sorry if I have disturbed you, Monsieur.” Angelique apologized before continuing. “I’m here to tell you that your son, Edgar, is missing from his bed. I’ve searched everywhere, but I could not find him.”

Ney smiled. “Calm down, calm down. There is no need to worry, Mademoiselle Angelique. My son is here sleeping on my bed.” He opened the door more widely, letting the housemaid see that Edgar was sleeping with his mother. Angelique was relieved. “I at least appreciate you for searching for my son.” Ney kindly thanked her. “You can start up with the breakfast now. You know what we all like. Go find Monsieur Claude and tell him to bring me some coffee.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Angelique turned around and walked away as Ney softly closed the door when she left. He turned his head upon hearing the waking moans coming from his wife.

“What was going on?” Aglaé softly asked.

“It was our housemaid; she was worried that our little Edgar was missing.” Ney made his way toward his wife’s side of the bed and sat down on the edge of the soft mattress.

“She always seems to worry far too much. I would not be surprised if she truly believed that my boy was abducted, all because he was simply missing from his room.”

“I still appreciate her concern, at least.”

Aglaé lovingly gazed at their son, still sleeping quite soundly against her. In a way, it was amusing to Ney. Edgar had always been a deep sleeper to the point that even somewhat loud noises never disturbed him while he slumbered. What puzzled him was that Edgar only needed to be gently nudged to be awakened. “Three years have passed since Edgar was born...I often wish I could just turn him back into my baby and hold him again in my arms.” She sighed longingly. “My children are growing up too quickly.”

Ney reached out and touched her on the shoulder. “Well, there is still plenty of time.”

“Time for what exactly?”

“If that is what you want, there is still plenty of time for us to have another one.” His hand traveled south down from her shoulder, brushed his fingers along the smooth milky arm, and then, reaching the destination, he softly grasped her thigh through the white sleeping gown. “We are both still young and fit.”

Aglaé gently brushed his hand away from her. “Not in front of Edgar, you idiot!” She scolded, “You know better than to make those kinds of suggestions while our boy is in here in the same room.”

“He’s a deep sleeper,” Ney pointed out, unconcerned. “He won’t hear us even if we are not whispering.”

“This is not the time or place for that kind of talk, husband. It would be more appropriate only if our boy isn’t here with us.”

“Alright, I suggest you wake him up, then we can discuss it.” Ney jested.

Aglaé shook her head, “Oh, forget it. I’ll let him sleep a little longer.”

“Fine, but don’t let him sleep for too long. It won’t be long before we break our fast.”

A few knocks on the door were heard. “You may enter,” Ney permitted.

The door opened. The only manservant Jean Claude entered inside. His clothing was simple, wearing a black buttoned-up vest over a white long-sleeved shirt with cuffs. A white cravat was wrapped around his neck like a noose. His light brown breeches were tucked underneath his white stockings. The shoes were brown with a single bronze buckle. Claude moved into the chamber and gave him the cup of coffee he ordered. Ney took the hot drink into his hands, “Thank you. I want you to help Mademoiselle Angelique in preparing our breakfast. Come back when it is ready.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Claude left the room and gently closed the door.

Ney inhaled the excellent, sweet aroma before he took several large sips from his steaming cup. He soon felt reinvigorated; it was a great feeling. He felt younger and more active. Waking up in the morning often made him felt groggy, old, and weak. He offered the cup to his wife. “Here, I think you could use this as well.”

Aglaé reached out and took the coffee, “Thank you,” She sipped the drink.

“What is that, mommy?” Edgar suddenly asked.

Ney had forgotten that not only could Edgar sleep through noises that would have disturbed anybody else’s rest, but his nose was sharp. A delicious aroma was enough to rouse him from his slumber.

“Oh, hello, son.” Aglaé was not surprised either. She, too, was aware of the same things about Edgar.

“I was sleeping, but I smelled something good.” Edgar curiously eyed the cup in his mother’s hand. “What is that stuff?”

“It’s a drink only your mother and I can handle,” Ney answered. “You won’t like the taste. It is very nasty.”

“Why do you drink it if it tastes so bad?”

“That is because I am used to drinking it, and it started tasting good to me,” Ney replied.

Edgar was utterly confused, “What? I don’t get it.”

Ney gave up quickly. He couldn't explain what he meant to a three-year-old boy. “It won’t be long before breakfast is ready.” Ney promptly changed the subject. “Go to your room and get yourself dressed, boy.”

“Okay, daddy,” Edgar hugged him and his mother in turn before he moved off the bed and then headed for the door where he left the room.

“I need to know this: why did you give Edgar the impression that the story of the Beast of Gévaudan was simply a story? You know as well as I do that it was a horrific event that occurred only several years before you were born. That wolf-like animal brutally slaughtered so many people before it was finally killed. For some strange reason, you offered to tell all about it to Edgar right after he had a nightmare. Are you trying to scare him for life?”

“I want our son to grow up quickly. I did not say that story was real because I wanted him first to overcome his silly fear of monsters. I will tell him the story, and then afterward, I reveal to him in the end that it was all true. Then and only then will I determine whether he has truly defeated his irrational fears. Of course, I will make it clear that the Beast of Gévaudan was only a wild animal and not some kind of supernatural creature.”

Aglaé seemed puzzled. “Your method does not make very much sense.” she then frowned, “What if your unorthodox solution does not work at all, and you only end up terrifying him to the point he won’t be able to peacefully sleep again?”

“Even if my plan does not work, Edgar will not keep on having his nightmares for the rest of his life. He will grow up in time and learn the hard way most likely.” Ney was unworried. He was confident that either way, Edgar would learn to defeat his fears, eventually.

“Children are not the only ones who have bad dreams. It was only hours ago when you needed my comfort.”

“Edgar’s nightmares are not the same as the bad dreams of terrible memories, wife.” Ney slightly frowned at the silly comparison. “What I’ve been through was a hundred times worse than being chased in a dream by a werewolf that does not even exist in the real world. There is no comparison. I must live by with the fact that I could have made a different decision that might have saved the lives of so many of my men. Their families will never see them again because of me.”

A knocking on the door stopped Aglaé, who was about to say something in return. Ney went over to the door and opened it. There was Claude. “The meal is ready, Monsieur.”

“Good, now go and wake up all of my other sons for breakfast.”

“I have already taken the liberty in making sure they are ready. They are already down there at the table, waiting for you and Madame.”

“Tell them we will be down there within a few minutes.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” Claude took his leave.

Ney gandered over his shoulder, “Breakfast is ready. I’ll be waiting with the children.” He told his wife before he exited out of the room and closed the door, leaving Aglaé alone. He moved down from the third to the first floor of his home. He strolled through a few corridors with polished wooden floors and high arched stone ceilings before entering the white marble-floored dining room. His four sons were seated at the rectangular table in their red cushioned oak-carved chairs while they had their conversations. His stomach growled in anticipation after he smelled the hot, cooked food on the table. Everything was already prepared before he had arrived, with the food on everybody’s porcelain plates. Ney took his chair at the head of the table. The seat at the opposite end was always reserved for Aglaé.

His four sons were seated evenly on both sides. Edgar sat beside his older brother, Eugène. On the opposite side sat Michel and Joseph.

“Is mother coming soon?” The eldest son, Joseph, asked.

“Of course, she will be down here very soon. We just need to wait,” Ney answered. “Tell me, what are your thoughts about your new tutor. I never asked.” He addressed to all his sons. He was happy he had succeeded. Two weeks ago, he founded a highly qualified teacher who lived a few miles south away in Châteaudun from his chateau in Marboué. He discovered in the interview that the tutor was recently fired because of his political affiliations with the deposed Emperor. Ney had been left with no other option since every nearby academy rejected his sons because he was born as a commoner, as was his wife. It was another thing he hated about the Bourbons. Advanced education was again restricted to the nobility.

Joseph answered first, “I think he is good.”

“Did you learn anything interesting?” Ney asked.

“I’m doing fine with four out of the five lessons. I just hate the science one. It’s hard for me to understand anything. I can barely understand Isaac Newton’s theory of gravity.” Joseph complained, being frustrated.

“Science was never my greatest strength.” Ney understood. He knew what it felt like to be frustrated over a complicated subject. “Well, here is how I understand the concept of gravity in my way.” He picked up his cup full of wine and held it up from the table while his son watched. “If I drop this cup, will it float or fall straight to the table.”

“It will fall onto the table.”

Ney nodded. “Yes, unless something intervenes, the cup will fall straight to the table.” He placed the cup back on the table. “This is my crude understanding of gravity, son. Your tutor probably knows better than I do regarding that subject.”

“It is just too boring and hard for me to pay attention.”

“Then, what are you interested in learning?”

“Well, I would like to learn how to ride a horse, father.”

“Then I’ve hired you the wrong tutor, to begin with.” Ney chuckled amusingly. “I understand you are interested in horseback riding, but I want you to learn several different things that could help you with your life as you grow older. It will expand your opportunities. It’s useful to learn mathematics, language, history, and so forth. I don’t want any of my sons, including you, to grow up in the world at a disadvantage.” He explained.

“I understand, father.” Joseph replied as he nodded, “I only have a problem with learning about science. It is too difficult for me to grasp, and I am not interested in learning anything about it anyway. I’m not going to be anything like Antoine Lavoisier or Isaac Newton, so why should I even bother?”

“Even if you are not interested in science, it is always good to learn a few simple things about it. Just look at me, for example. I’ve already said that science was not one of my greatest strengths, but I do know some things about it.”

“Yes, but that is very little. What if I do not wish to learn anything more about it? I also fail to see how it will help me in my life as I become older. I doubt anybody will ever bother to ask me any difficult scientific questions.” Joseph pointed out.

Ney knew he was not getting anywhere with Joseph over the subject.

_I’ll have to speak with the teacher and alter the curriculum quite significantly._

“If this is how you feel, then I’ll have a talk with your tutor over the issue when he arrives today at midday. I suppose you could easily get through with life without knowing anything scientific. Still, you need to become familiar with other subjects for the sake of expanding your knowledge. It would help you get a better future, and perhaps, even an occupation with good pay.” After saying that, Joseph was pleased. “Other than wanting to learn how to ride a horse, is there anything else you are interested in learning which your tutor could teach?”

“I do like the history lesson very much. I would love to learn a lot more about the great battles of the past and the leaders who won them.”

Ney was glad. He was worried his son was not interested in learning anything that revolved around his education. “I’ve relieved.”

_If he became a historian, that would be a good occupation. At least it would not require proof of nobility._

A few minutes after his talk with Joseph was finished, his wife came into the dining room. She was dressed in her sheer white silhouetted gown with the waistline ending just below the bust, where the dress was secured with a thin yellow band. Her arms were covered with white sleeves, and the hair on her head was tied back in a loose bundle. Her manner of dress frequently reminded him of the time back then when both men and women were much more conservative in their dress, but the past twenty years had changed all of that. People these days now wore loose-fitting clothing in the place of tight-fitting breeches, corsets, stockings. Hair was even worn in its natural form, having replaced the wigs.

After grace was made, the entire family ate together while they made their idle talk with each other. Ney paid little heed to the chatter between his sons. He set down his fork and knife and looked across to the opposite end of the table. “Dearest. Do you still remember that my aide, Octave, will be here to have dinner with us?”

His wife dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Of course, I have not forgotten. I’ll make sure the dinner is prepared before the time he arrives at 5:00 in the afternoon.”

“Good, good,” Ney said. “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“I think we need to change the education curriculum for our sons.” Ney noticed that his son, Joseph, was looking at him while chewing slowly.

“What needs to be changed?”

“Well, you see, I’m afraid this system we’ve agreed with the tutor may not work out well for all three of our boys.”

“In what way?”

“Well, Joseph, here, is struggling quite a bit in his science lesson. He told me the subject is far too difficult. On top of that, he stated there was no point for him to learn much about science because he did not think it was necessary later in his life. I have to agree with him there, but it seems like he doesn’t have problems with any other learning subjects.”

“So, you want the tutor to stop giving scientific lessons to Joseph?”

“Yes. I think it is better that way.”

“But this would ruin the system we’ve agreed with the tutor. It will have to be changed.”

“I agree, it has to change, but not only just for Joseph’s sake. I think we need a different system which would accommodate the different needs of our three boys. I think focusing on their strengths in whatever they’re learning should be the top priority. It may serve them well later in life.”

“I see now. So, you want the tutor to emphasize certain subjects each of the boys wants to learn more about. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Joseph wants to learn more about history. Since the curriculum's timing was divided by the five agreed-upon subjects of mathematics, language, science, history, and literature, we will simply take out the science lesson. Whatever time was given for that course will be transferred to history. To make this work, the tutor would give each one of our three boys a private lesson alone on certain days of the week. Sunday will still be the only day of the week our boys will be allowed to have time for themselves. The other six days of learning will be evenly divided between our sons. That’s how it will work out.”

“I suppose that feasible. But here is my question. What if Michel and Eugène are not having any issues with their curriculum, but they do wish to spend more time learning one of the five courses?”

“Then the time for the other four courses can be reduced by a little so that the fifth lesson, whatever it may be, can be extended.”

“It looks like there are no possible problems that need to be addressed.”

“Good, then we will speak with the teacher when he gets here.” Ney resumed eating from his plate, with his eyes focused on his food. He passively listened to the conversations between his wife and their two other sons. It had everything to do with their new curriculum. Eugène told his mother that he struggled with the language course in learning German. Still, he believed he could improve himself in that area. He expressed his desire for a longer lesson on literature. Eugène went on about the many amazing stories written so long ago. He grew attached to the old poem of the famous hero Beowulf and the Song of Roland. Aglaé then talked with their second-oldest son, Michel, who told her, he wanted a longer lesson on mathematics. Ney was relieved his two other sons had no severe problems in courses like mathematics and literature.

An uncomfortable question came into mind. His son, Edgar, had yet to start his education, but not now, as he was too young. It would begin in a year when he would turn four, a ripe age to start soaking up knowledge.

_What if the boy struggles in either mathematics or literature to the point he no longer wishes to learn?_

That possibility bothered him. He knew that mathematics and literature were essential, especially the latter being utilized as a reasonable basis for reading and writing.

_My boy will not grow up as an illiterate farmer—the lowest of professions._

Even if his boy struggled, Ney would not allow Edgar to grow up illiterate. Challenges could be beaten. Joseph's issue was different, as science was not necessary in life, since it was not required in most professions, that much was true.

Being literate and learning math was crucial in higher positions above farming, such as being a merchant, teacher, or clerk. Under the Bourbons, it was the least he hoped for his boys, in ensuring they each had a good living.

Ney looked at the brown standing clock in the corner of the dining room. It was nearly 11:00 in the morning. He finished with his meal and excused himself from the table, knowing the dishes will be taken care of by Angelique or Claude.

About an hour later, the tutor arrived several minutes before noon. Ney and his wife spoke with the teacher, telling the tutor that the current curriculum needed to be heavily readjusted to accommodate each of their three sons' specific needs. The tutor understood what they explained to him in detail. He said to them that he would return at the beginning of next week, as it would be appropriate for the beginning of the new schedule Ney and his wife wanted. The tutor departed, but not without payment Ney had given to him for his time.

After the meeting was concluded, Aglaé set Claude and Angelique to work in the kitchen to prepare for Octave’s arrival. Ney went to his library on the first floor of the mansion, selected one of his books, and returned to the bedroom.

He comfortably laid down on the bed, with his back propped upright by several pillows against the headboard. Ney beheld the title on the front cover. ‘ _Treatise on Grand Military Operations: or A Critical and Military History of the Wars of Frederick the Great as Contrasted with the Modern System_ ’ written by Antoine-Henri Jomini and published in 1805, as its second volume.

Ney remembered he had read the first volume twelve years ago and loved it to the point he even funded the publication of Jomini’s work. Jomini was even included as part of his staff. Since then, he had heeded much of Jomini’s advice, which did well for him in many campaigns he had participated with the Emperor.

Ney was further reminded that Jomini was surrounded by controversy. He held two different commissions from both the French and Russian armies and often switched sides. From what Ney had heard, Jomini served as an advisor to the Russians. Still, to this day, Ney had mixed feelings about all this. Jomini served in his staff for many years. He was an advisor to the enemy during the campaign in Germany two years ago. In the end, he was unsure of what he thought of Jomini. His thinking was pushed aside, and he focused on the book in his hands. He started reading from the first page.

Ney’s reading was interrupted when he heard a few knocks on his door. “Come in.” He stopped at page 134. He set it aside on the bed.

The door opened, revealing Claude. “Pardon, Monsieur. Our guest has arrived.”

Ney sat upright on the bed. “Is it time for dinner?”

“Not yet. It is a little after four in the afternoon. Monsieur Octave had arrived early.”

“I see,” Ney said. “Well, is he in the drawing-room?”

“He is. I gave him some water. He’s waiting for you.”

“I see. I’ll be down there in just a moment.”

“Understood.”

“Tell me, is Octave’s favorite dish nearly ready?”

“It shouldn’t take very long now. It’s been cooking very slowly for a while, but it should be finished when it’s time to eat.”

“Good. See to it what else needs to be done for the meal.”

“I will, Monsieur.” Claude left the doorway, closing the door.

Ney moved off his bed, opened the door, and went out of his room. He came down from the third to the first floor, where the drawing-room was located close to his home's front door. Ney strolled down a white marble-floored hallway, with the brown oak door seen at the end. He turned the corner and entered through an open wooden archway located on the door's right side. Octave was there, dressed in a brown buttoned-up tailcoat, white trousers, and black buckled shoes. The aide was slowly pacing around in the drawing-room, holding a small glass cup of water. Octave looked at things randomly until his eyes were focused on Ney when he came into the room. Ney came up and embraced him a quick, gentle hug, being mindful of the glass Octave held. “How are you?”

“I’m alright, as usual.” Octave said casually. “What about you?” He returned the question.

“There is nothing new with me. I’ve recently found and hired an excellent tutor for my sons.”

“Really? Well, that’s good news.”

“Yes. I finally found one. This tutor had been fired not too long ago because he was a supporter of the Emperor.”

“That’s not surprising.”

Ney nodded. “Please, have a seat or stand if you wish.” He offered, gesturing to one of the green cushioned chairs in the drawing-room.

They both sat opposite each other at a brown, wooden, square-shaped table. A conversation commenced between the two of them. They spoke about several things. Much of it had a lot to do with politics and how they both felt about the long list of foolish laws implemented by the King’s government in the past year since the Emperor’s abdication. They had problems with the way the army was ill-treated. Since the restoration of the Bourbons, a new wave of undeservedly promoted officers were noblemen. They often replaced the more experienced ones that gained their ranks the hard way. Many of the rest of the officers, numbering in the thousands, were forced on half-pay. The _Legion of Honor_ decoration was rendered into a meaningless civilian ornament, superseded by the Order of Saint Louis. The widely hated military bodyguard of the Bourbons, the Maison Militaire du Roi de France was restored and given an undeservedly massive budget at the army's expense. It was composed of nobles, who were typically treated better than the rest of the military.

His aide asked if France would have been better off with Napoléon in charge and not the King. Ney acknowledged that things in France changed for the worse. Still, he pointed out that there was peace, at least, something rarely seen under Bonaparte’s rule. No domestic reforms that Napoléon introduced would be worth another war with the old enemies of the nation.

It was a hard thing he tolerated. Ney respected the Emperor as a great leader but disliked Napoléon personally because of his autocratic nature.

_I followed you because France was better off under you than before during the French Republic's chaotic years._

His loyalty to the nation always surpassed the leader. That reminded him of what happened a year ago. He supported Napoléon’s abdication on behalf of the other marshals present at Fontainebleau. Peace for France had motivated him back then.

His talk with Octave became less political, and the topic turned to the issue of warfare, which was a subject they knew all too well. They were interrupted when Claude came into the room and announced that dinner was ready.

Ney and Octave followed Claude to the dining room. Upon making it there, Ney’s children and his wife were all seated at their usual spots. An extra chair was added for Octave. The table almost resembled a royal feast. Whenever Ney dined with Octave, everybody’s favorite dishes, including his own were ready to be served.

Ney and Octave took their seats. Claude and Angelique stood from the corners of the room, ready to attend to anybody at a moment’s notice.

After a Catholic prayer of thanks by Ney was made, the meal began. His dish contained two fat slices of roasted beef seasoned with salt. On the side, there was a small, fresh, hot loaf of rye bread coated in a thin layer of honey. His aide had received his cassoulet dish, made up of white beans, pork, sausages, mutton, and goose. It was apparent Octave sincerely enjoyed it.

During the meal, small talk was exchanged between his wife and their children over a few things. Ney was not paying any attention, being too focused on his food. Nothing was spoken between Ney and his aide. Both were quiet the whole time while they ate. It was unusual, but Ney did not mind it. Usually, both he and Octave talked about something during this kind of dinner.

Ney curiously glanced at the clock in the dining room. It was close to 6:00 in the evening. He heard knocking on the front door of his house.

“I’ll get the door.” Claude left the room, his footsteps echoing off the wooden hallway. The door creaked as it opened. There was some indistinct talking, uttered in short sentences, by the sound of it. The door closed, and a pair of shoes strolled down the hallway. Claude appeared through the doorway and made it to where Ney sat. He leaned in and whispered into Ney’s ear. “An important guest is waiting for you in the drawing-room. He told me he is an aide-de-camp of the Ministre de la Guerre. He carries a letter for you written by the minister himself.”

Ney nodded. His blood simmered when Marshal Soult, the Minister of War, was vaguely mentioned. He never liked that man. Soult was quite cold, arrogant, and unfriendly when he first met him twenty years ago when they fought in the same army, the Army of Sambre and Meuse. His hatred for Soult only worsened when the Minister of War became a boot-licker to the Bourbons and was responsible for many unpopular policies, including the Legion of Honor's degradation. Ney lowered his utensils. “Please, excuse me.” He said to everyone at the table. “I’ll be back very soon.” His wife nodded to him before she returned to eating. “I’ll take care of this guest.” He told Claude. “You can stay here and attend to whoever needs you during dinner.”

“Should I leave your plate alone?” Claude asked.

Ney glanced at his nearly empty plate. “No. You can get rid of whatever scraps are remaining. I think I’ve eaten enough.”

“I understand.”

Ney left the dining room, moved down the hallway, and came into the drawing-room. There was the aide, who looked young, perhaps somewhere in his late twenties. He was dressed according to his status. A black bicorn hat rested on his head. He wore a buttoned-up blue jacket with white lapels, white breeches tucked under black boots, and a sheathed curved saber dangled off his hip from the brown belt. His rank was displayed by his epaulets' color on both shoulders, with silver shoulder straps and thick yellow fringes. The aide carried a folded piece of paper.

The aide removed his hat when Ney entered the drawing-room. “Monsieur le Maréchal. It’s an honor to be in your presence.” He greeted. “I first wish to apologize for interrupting your dinner.”

“Apology accepted. What do you have for me, Major?” The aide gave him the letter. “Do you know what’s going on, Major?”

The aide shook his head. “No, Monsieur le Maréchal. I was attending a ball by the time I was given this letter. All I know is that I had to deliver it here without delay. I do know that many other aides like me were sent away like birds in many directions from Paris.”

“I see, now.” Ney accepted the closed letter from the aide.

_Something notable must have happened._

“I wish you a good day, Monsieur le Maréchal.”

“Safe travels to you.”

The aide took his leave from the drawing-room, opened the door, and went out after shutting it.

Alone, Ney broke the sealing wax and opened the letter. He read the contents. The paragraph was short. It was never explained why he needed to leave for his command post at Besançon, eastern France. Ney decided to go to Paris to obtain further information regarding his mysterious orders. His uniform was in his other home in the Rue de Bourbon in the same city. Two purposes would be done in a single trip to Paris.

Ney came out of the drawing-room, went down the hallway, and entered the dining room. He came up to his empty chair and sat down. “Colonel Octave.” His aide paused eating his nearly finished dish and looked at him, ready to listen. “When you’re done eating, I need you to quickly head for Paris and inform the Ministre de la Guerre of my impending arrival.”

“I understand. Is something happening I’m not aware of, Monsieur le Maréchal?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what’s going on. An aide from the Ministre de la Guerre gave me this letter.” Ney briefly brandished the paper in the air for a moment. “I have to head for my command post at Besançon, but it did not give me any reason. I intend to talk with Maréchal Soult to obtain further information. I think he is holding out on me for some strange reason.” 

“I see. I hope whatever is happening is nothing serious.”

“I share your sentiment. Please, enjoy your meal.”

Octave resumed eating his dish. Ney called out for Claude, who stood by in the room to follow him to his bed-chamber. His servant trailed after him out of the dining room, through the same hallway which led to a set of wooden stairs and reached the second level. After they went through a second hallway, they climbed up another set of stairs, leading to the third level. Ney reached the end of the last corridor, where there was the closed door to his quarters. He opened it up and went into the room. He reached his wardrobe, opened the wooden doors, and pulled out one of the drawers, where he kept thousands of francs in the form of coins kept in a small box and small bundles of banknotes in high denominations tied up with string. There was also an empty coin purse with a drawstring sharing the same drawer with the money. He chose the wooden box and selected five gold coins, each worth twenty francs.

Ney gave the money to Claude. “Right now, I want you to get to Châteaudun and hire a coachman to come to this house. I’ll need it to get to Paris.”

“It will be done, Monsieur.” Claude took his leave from Ney’s room and went out of sight.

Ney felt a strong urge in his bowels. He quickly went down for the second level. All the lavatories were in three separate rooms, all situated next to each other. The second one in the middle was chosen. After opening the door, he was greeted by the smell of human waste. Ney quickly finished and wiped himself with available cut pieces of white lace.

He returned to his room and removed his robe, folded it, and settled it in the wardrobe on a pile of clothing. He selected more appropriate things to be worn for his travel to Paris. He took out a brown buttoned-up overcoat, a white waistcoat, a black leather belt, and brown trousers. His buckled-up shoes were replaced with the boots set next to the wardrobe. After getting dressed, he took out the empty drawstring purse and filled it with plenty of coins until it was nearly filled up and had it tied to his belt, hanging off the right side of his hip. The door to the wardrobe was closed.

Ney took the book he had left on the bed, went down to the first level of his home, and headed for the drawing-room, where he would wait patiently for Claude to arrive with the coachman and the carriage. Since Châteaudun was only little more than a league away on foot from Marboué, where his home was located, Ney estimated it would not take long, maybe an hour or two before the carriage would arrive.

Ney took his seat on the chair Octave had first sat on when he arrived at his home. The book was opened to the page where he stopped and resumed reading it, with the intent of passing the time.

The door opened, interrupting Ney from his reading. It felt like time had gone by quickly, making it seem like it took only a short while. He stopped at page one-hundred-sixty. Claude came inside. “Monsieur, I have brought a coachman with his carriage. He is waiting for you right now.”

“Good.” Ney stood from his chair and approached Claude. “Put this book back into its proper place in my little library.” He handed the book to his servant.

“I will.” Claude slipped his hand into his black overcoat pocket and brought it back out in a clenched fist. “I was able to bargain a deal with the coachman. I saved at least forty francs.”

Ney took the money, a total of two gold coins, and added them to the purse. “Well, I’ll be leaving now. Au revoir, Claude.”

“I wish the same to you, Monsieur.”

Ney took his leave through the open front door, closed it, and came outside. He went down a small set of stone stairs and made his way to a black carriage with a two-horse team parked out in front of his home. The coachman, dressed in a black overcoat and wearing the same colored top hat on his head, was in his seat with his long whip at hand.

“Hello, Monsieur.” The coachman greeted.

He came down from his seat, moved to the carriage side, and opened the door. Ney went inside and sat down on the leather seat. The door closed, and the driver put the coach into motion.

Ney knew that Paris was eighty miles away to the north-east from his home in Marboué. It would likely take up the entire evening. He planned to stop somewhere to sleep for the night before traveling the rest of the way to the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would recommend this French movie titled "Le Pacte des Loups" It was a fictionalized version of the Beast of Gevaudan. Scary and fun to watch. Watch it in the French language, not English dub. The latter sounds like crap.


End file.
